


Unrequited

by eponine119



Category: Lost
Genre: 1970s, DHARMA Initiative, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponine119/pseuds/eponine119
Summary: It's 1974. Sawyer and Juliet join the Dharma Initiative, along with Miles and Jin. Sawyer's starting to have feelings for Juliet, but he doesn't want to admit it, because he knows he'll screw it up. Juliet also has feelings for Sawyer, but she's determined to keep them hidden because she knows he has good reasons to hate her.
Relationships: Juliet Burke/James "Sawyer" Ford
Comments: 20
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a novel in two parts. It's complete. This story has seven chapters; the sequel has six. Chapters will be posted as the editing is finished.

Unrequited  
by eponine119  
April 14 - 26, 2020

Chapter One

Her words keep ringing in his head. “I guess I'm staying,” she said, with a shrug. Like it didn't mean anything at all to her. Like it didn't mean everything to him. 

But now Sawyer doesn't know what to do. Every time he looks at her, he has to look away. His hands get sweaty on his tray in the cafeteria if she's standing next to him in line. 

It's spaghetti night in the Dharma Initiative cafeteria. “Too much sugar in the sauce,” Miles says, and pushes his plate to the other side of his tray, like a couple of weeks ago they weren't living on mangoes and leaves. “You gonna eat your garlic bread?” 

“Take it,” Sawyer sighs, and his eyes sweep past Juliet, sitting across from him. 

“What?” she asks, catching his gaze. She rubs her mouth with her fingers, like she thinks he's looking at her because she's got sauce on her face. 

He has to shift where he's sitting, even though what she's doing couldn't be farther from sexy or even attractive. He gives her a look like she's crazy and looks down into his plate. His face starts feeling hot because he can feel her continuing to look at him. He's not sure he dares to raise his eyes again. After a second, he tells himself to man up and meets her eyes. She's kind of smirking at him like she knows everything he's been thinking, so he puts his head back down. 

Miles's fingers snake out, making a stealth attempt at her garlic bread. “Mine!” she says, a little too loud. 

“Seconds,” Jin says, a suggestion to Miles. 

“More fun this way,” he says. “Jim? You want a replacement?” 

Sawyer starts to shake his head, but then says, “Why not.” 

Miles comes back the king of garlic bread mountain. “That chick likes me.” He also has a slice of cake on a plate, which he puts down in front of Juliet. “An apology.” 

“You really didn't have to, Miles,” she says, but she sounds amused. 

Sawyer glares at his meatballs. Somebody must notice because two pieces of garlic bread land on his plate. He picks one up and tears off a bite savagely with his teeth. Then stops, because now he understands Miles's obsession. It's really good, soft and hot and garlicky. 

They leave the cafeteria together, like they always do, a foursome. Sawyer kind of hangs back to bring up the rear, but Juliet does too. “You okay?” she asks. 

“Never better.” 

“You just seem kind of... out of sorts. Strangely quiet.” 

“Don't know what you're talkin' about,” he says. 

She puts her hand on his arm. Lightly. Casually. Like she's discovered a secret. “Are you up to something?” 

Her hand on his arm makes his breath stop. But he won't let her see that. “Just keepin' my head down and tryin' to fit in.” 

She looks at him, like she's analyzing him. Then he sees something like hurt cross her face, just the barest flash before it's gone again. It makes him curious. She starts to turn toward the barracks, but when he doesn't follow, she stops. 

He looks at her standing there alone and relents a little. “I was gonna stop by the rec room, grab a new book to read.” He doesn't ask if she wants to come. But he doesn't start walking, either. 

“You finished Centennial already?” she asks. 

“Hell no, that thing's like 800 pages. It's boring me to death.” 

“I liked the miniseries. When it was on. Like six years from now.” She gives him a funny little smile. “It's weird.” 

They walk together. Things get awkward at the door of the rec room, because he feels like he needs to open it for her. She gives him a very strange look. “I can open my own doors, James.” 

“I know you can,” he says defensively. He beelines for the shelves in the corner that constitute the library. 

She trails along after him. “Are you nervous about your meeting with Horace tomorrow?” To stay, they had to join the Dharma Initiative. Tomorrow they'll get their test results and work assignments. 

“It don't matter,” he says, shoving disorganized paperbacks here and there. 

“Do you have a headache?” she asks. 

“No,” he snaps. 

“Here.” She puts a book into his hands. It's a very slim hardcover. He looks down at it. Stephen King. He looks at her. “You've read it?” she asks, and he shakes his head. She smiles. “We can talk about it when you're done.” 

Everything in him tells him to put it down on the shelf. Reject it. But he can't, not when she's smiling at him like that. He looks down at it again. 

“Are you some kind of literary snob, is that it?” she asks, but there's a quaver in her voice now. 

“It's that important to you,” he says casually, and accidentally looks at her again. He makes himself look away. 

“Do you – not --” She stops herself. “Read it, or don't. I just thought it would be nice to have something to talk about. Good luck with Horace tomorrow.” She walks away, and the push bar on the door clatters loudly when she hits it to open the door and escape. 

…

Miles is hanging around on the porch when she gets back to the barracks. He takes a look at her face and asks, “What's up?” 

“Do you have any idea what's wrong with James?” Juliet's a little breathless, from her fast walk and also from the anger in her that she can't really explain. 

“No more than usual,” Miles says. “He's more likely to confide in you than me.” 

“That's what I thought, but lately it's like he can't get away from me fast enough.” She looks at the houses, at her old house. “Maybe staying here brought up some old feelings.” She wasn't exactly his favorite Other.

“Or new ones.” Miles smirks at the surprised look she gives him. “I think someone's got a crush on you.” 

“A what?” She laughs, because crushes are things that 13 year old girls get, and James is the exact opposite of a tweenage girl. “Did he say something to you?” 

Miles holds up both hands as though surrendering. “I could be wrong.” He goes inside. 

Juliet sits down on the metal chair, because she doesn't want to go inside yet. She tells herself she's not waiting for James to come back from the rec room, except that's not quite true. There's a sad kind of longing in her heart to see him again.

She watches the fireflies for awhile, and the kids who have to go in at sunset, and the couples heading for their houses. She's about to go in when she sees the shape of him coming up the walk. She looks up expectantly, and for a moment she thinks he's going to breeze right by her with his head down and not say a word. 

But then his eyes meet hers at the last moment, and he comes to a stop. He's standing over her and she notices how tall he is. She could wear heels and he'd still be taller than her. She smiles a little at the thought. 

“Fine, I'll join your damn book club,” he says with a glare. 

“That's funny,” she says. “I actually used to have a book club. When I lived over there. And I made them all read that book.” He gets two wrinkles in his forehead when his eyebrows rise when he's puzzled, and there's something about them that she finds so perfect. 

“You all thought you were so civilized,” he says. 

She doesn't know what to say to that, except, “I'm sorry.” 

He sets his jaw and blows out a breath. 

“I know... you're not the kind of man to forgive and forget,” she starts, tentatively. 

“What's done is done,” he tells her, and it sounds almost like forgiveness. “We're here, now.” He looks at her, and she sees something change in his eyes before he looks away again. “Anyway, I got some readin' to do.” He moves for the door. 

“James?” She doesn't want to let him go quite yet. He pauses. “Can I borrow Centennial if you're done with it?” 

“Got insomnia?” he asks, and it's a flash of the teasing man that she recognizes. “I'll put it with your stuff.” Then the door bangs closed behind him and she's alone. 

She's decided Miles is wrong. And she's glad. A crush would be a problem. Because over the last couple of weeks, she's started to have feelings for James. Feelings that she's determined to hide because it's incredibly obvious to her he doesn't feel the same way. 

…

Sawyer goes straight to his meeting with Horace the next morning, mostly because he was up half the night reading her damn book, not that he'd admit it. 

Juliet's just coming out of the office, with a smile on her face and a bundle of jumpsuits in her arms. She keeps smiling when she sees him, and he tries to make his face respond in kind, but it's like he forgot how. In a moment, she passes him, and he wants to turn around and watch her some more. 

“Jim, come on in,” Horace says, and Sawyer walks into the office, feeling out of place. Horace goes back behind his desk and says, “Welcome to the Dharma Initiative. Namaste. Have a seat.” 

Sawyer sits down and wonders if he's ever going to be the type to go around saying Namaste at people. At least Horace didn't try to hug him or anything. Suddenly this all feels like a huge mistake. 

Horace opens up a file folder and whatever it says inside makes him smile. “We're very happy to have you join us. You're going to be a great addition to the team.” 

“Okay,” Sawyer says, wondering if he's got the right file folder. Or if they really are this dopey. 

“With your test scores, it's clear you'd be a success at any assignment we give you.” 

That makes Sawyer grin. “Guess I was a success at bullshittin' the test,” he says, feeling proud. 

“These are very scientific tests,” Horace says, earnestly. He moves a sheet of paper from one side of the folder to the other. “Were you aware that you have an almost genius-level IQ? You can't bullshit that test. You almost outscored me.” 

Sawyer just looks at the job title embroidered on Horace's jumpsuit: mathematician. He thinks Horace is full of it, maybe even lying for some reason. Though Sawyer might get a lot of play out of being a dumb hick, he knows he's not, really. But this briefly makes him wonder what might have been, if his life had been different. 

“So you tell me, LaFleur. What do you want to do?” 

“Whatever needs doing.” 

“Your girlfriend's got good spatial reasoning and she's good with her hands, so we put her in the motor pool.” 

“She's not my girlfriend,” Sawyer says evenly. 

“Really?” Horace sounds surprised. “I thought... well, huh.” He looks at Sawyer through his little round glasses. “You want me to put you in the motor pool?” 

“Up to you, boss.” 

“We'll do that then. See how it works out.” Horace makes a mark in his file, and closes it. “We put your friends Miles and Jin in security.” 

Sawyer holds his gaze. Doesn't say anything. 

“There's just one thing, LaFleur.” 

“What's that?” 

“Your friend Jin. If he's going to stay here, he's going to have to learn English. Soon.” 

“You got it,” Sawyer says. 

“Okay then, well, welcome to the team,” Horace says. He gets up and comes around the side of the desk to shake Sawyer's hand. Then he starts to walk him to the door of the office. 

“Ain't you forgetting something, boss?” Sawyer asks. Then flashes a grin. “My jumpsuit.” 

“Right,” Horace says. “There was a problem with the embroidery, so we don't have one ready for you just yet. Matt at the motor pool can get you a loaner one for now. Just go on over there and report for your shift.” 

“Seein' as how the embroidery ain't done yet, can you put me down as LaFleur instead of Jim?” Sawyer requests. Testing Horace. 

“We're all friends here, Jim. First name basis. That's the point.” 

“My friends call me LaFleur,” he says. Simply. Still pushing. After a beat, he throws in something akin to honesty for good measure. “Jim's not... it's been a long time since anybody called me that.” 

“In that case,” Horace says, agreeing. 

“Thanks, chief,” Sawyer says, and then exits the office before Horace can change his mind. He feels something like relief, not just because the meeting's behind him. It's about not having to wear a jumpsuit that says James on the pocket, or even Jim. He'll be LaFleur here, and make it work. 

…

He saunters up to the motor pool. Juliet's in her new jumpsuit. The dark blue brings out her eyes and offsets her pale hair. She's listening attentively to their new boss. Sawyer checks the guy's pocket to be sure it's Matt. 

“What're you doing here?” Juliet looks up at him, surprised. He can't decide if she's happy to see him. 

“Got assigned to the motor pool.” 

“Where's your jumpsuit?” Matt asks. 

“Horace said there was some problem, said you could hook me up with a loaner.” 

“Right, I'll grab you one.” Matt heads off to unlock the supply cabinet. Sawyer watches him a minute, wondering why it's under lock and key. 

“It's weird he put you on the motor pool, right?” Juliet asks, her voice low, when it's just the two of them. 

“He's testin' me,” Sawyer says. “Horace.” 

“He said that?” 

“It was obvious.” 

“What's his plan?” 

“Guess we'll just have to wait and see, sunshine,” he says, and reaches out to tweak the end of her ponytail before he thinks about it. The look she's giving him changes – somehow it seems more calm – and he can't figure out what to do with his hands. He shoves them deep into the pockets of his jeans, then has to take them out again when Matt hands him a blue jumpsuit that smells like mold and motor oil. 

“You know anything about cars?” Matt asks. 

“Only how to sell 'em.” 

“That's probably not going to be much use here,” Matt says. “Don't worry, we'll teach you what you need to know. Put that on, and you can both shadow me today.” 

Matt and Juliet head over toward the workbench in the back of the garage. Sawyer can put the jumpsuit on over his clothes, but it won't go over his boots. He bends down to unlace one. He puts his head down and looks behind him. Juliet's watching. He smiles to himself and takes off his other boot. 

The jumpsuit smells worse once it's on, and it's loose, even over his clothes. It's also hot, wearing two sets of clothes, even though they're in the shade. Matt narrates them through the van checkout procedure. Somehow it takes thirty minutes to explain that the person writes their name down and takes the keys. 

Halfway through an oil change that definitely doesn't happen in a jiffy, Sawyer whispers to Juliet, “Miles and Jin got assigned to security.” 

She looks at him and nods silently, then goes back to watching the oil change. 

He sighs at her indifference to him, and tunes back in to Matt for thirty seconds. But he finds himself watching her instead while her focus is elsewhere. He checks her out in her full-coverage jumpsuit. He'd gotten used to seeing her in that clinging, filthy, not-white-anymore tank top. Now all he can see is a hint of collarbone. He inches a little closer to see –

“Ready to give it a try?” Matt's voice breaks through to him. 

Sawyer blinks and comes back to where he is. Motor pool. Oil change. Witty reply required. 

“Juliet can show you. She was paying attention,” Matt says. He sets down his tools and wipes his fingers on a rag. “After lunch. One hour.” 

“Hey,” she says softly. Her ponytail falls over her shoulder and she places a hand on his arm. He flinches a little at her touch and then wishes he hadn't. “Where'd you go?” 

“I was tryin'a figure out what this here jumpsuit smells like,” he lies. Then a grin steals over him and he adds, “Take a whiff.” He raises his arm and shoves it into her face. 

She pushes him away, but she's giggling. The sound goes through him like a knife and he suddenly appreciates the roominess of his borrowed togs. She takes his arm and holds it to her nose in a more controlled way. “It smells like basement and old gas.” She inhales deeply. “Mmm, gasoline.” 

“You like the smell of gasoline?” 

“Yeah. Don't you?” 

He raises his eyebrows at her and shakes his head.

“We definitely need to wash this thing, though,” she says, finally releasing his arm. “And maybe find you some stronger deodorant.” 

“You sayin' I smell bad?” 

She smirks at him and shakes her head. 

“Gasoline and man sweat,” he says.

“It's this year's signature fragrance from Calvin Klein,” she quips. “We should eat.” 

“Fumes've gone to your head.” 

They start over to the cafeteria. “What were you thinking about?” she asks him, and he's aware of the way she's looking at him. 

“Wasn't thinking about anything,” he lies. 

She looks back over her shoulder at him. “What I've found is that when a man says that, he was really thinking about sex.” 

He sputters, and then rubs his nose. She certainly has a way of nailing it, and it unnerves him when she knows what he's thinking and is so calm about it. 

“Everybody does it,” she says, and hands him a tray. He sets it on the rail beside hers. “Oh, hey, tuna casserole.” 

They go through the line. She gets the casserole; he opts for a sandwich. They sit down at one of the tables. 

“I love it when they put the toothpicks in like that,” she says. 

He looks down at his sandwich. It's been cut into quarters and there's a toothpick in each one to hold it together. He's already pulled one out without even thinking about it. “Horace talk to you about test scores at all?” He's wondering if everyone gets the 'almost a genius' speech. Though in her case, it might not be far off. 

“Not really,” she says. “He just said welcome, and gave me the jumpsuits that said Motor Pool, and handed me some handbooks. Is that not how your meeting went?” 

“No handbooks.” He's not sure how much else he wants to tell her. 

“And no jumpsuit,” she points out. 

“I'm not long for the motor pool.” Of this, he's absolutely certain. 

“You think he's going to put you somewhere else? Where?” 

“Haven't figured that out yet.” He finishes another quarter of his sandwich. “He did say one other thing.” He pauses until she's looking at him. “We're gonna have to teach Jin English.” 

“How are we going to do that?” 

“Hell if I know. But if we don't, he's out.” 

…

It doesn't take the full hour to eat, so they head back early. They're alone in the workshop and Juliet wonders if it was the best idea. Not that she has anything to be afraid of. Over the last three years she's become a pro at suppressing unwanted feelings. And James practically shoving her head into his armpit made it clear to her that to him, they're on more of a “love you like a brother” path. 

Even if he happened to be staring in her direction when he was spacing out. 

Even if she's still thinking about his smell. She knows that pheromones are a real thing and that they play a role in attraction, in finding someone who would be a good mate. He smelled good to her, salty and musky and hot, and it sent her mind off in a hundred different directions. Wanting to be held by him, her face against his chest, the heat of his body around her, and yes his scent filling her nose. Making her think about showers and the bedroom and how he might taste. 

“Well, well, well, I ain't the only daydreamer in the motor pool,” he says. 

Her eyes focus on him. “Hmm?” 

“Oil change?” he reminds her. 

“Right,” she says, checking the clipboard and finding the van that they're supposed to work on. Her face is flushed and she's hoping it doesn't show. 

She starts to change the oil, aware that he's watching her. He's paying close attention, unlike during the morning lesson. She sneaks a couple of glances at him, but mostly she focuses on what she's doing, until it's done. 

“You got all that from one little bitty session this morning?” he asks. 

“I learned how to change oil when I was in high school,” she says. 

“You one of those chicks who took auto shop?” 

“'Chicks'?” she asks. 

“Ladies,” he corrects, drawing out the word. Smiling. She can't help watching his mouth. 

“My dad taught me when he taught me how to drive,” she says, and pushes back some hairs that have escaped from her ponytail. She sees how the motion draws his eyes. “Your turn.” 

“How they got so many vans needin' oil today?” 

“Maybe they were saving them up for the new kids,” she says. 

“Wonder what we're doin' tomorrow.” 

“Focus on today.” She puts her wrench into his hand and steps back. “I'll talk you through it.” She takes a seat on the overturned bucket he'd been using as a stool. It's warm, and she inhales deeply. 

She watches as she gives him instructions, sometimes two or three times. She can't quite figure out why this is going so wrong. Maybe she's just bad at explaining, she thinks, but she keeps coming down to watching his hands. His fingers are long and almost elegant, but every motion seems kind of awkward, and twisted, and backward. 

Backward. It clicks. “You're left handed.” 

“Alert the press.” His hair is kind of damp and sticking to his forehead, and frustration is rolling off him in waves. He's not used to being bad at things, and she suspects he has issues being given instructions by a woman. 

“Why are you doing this with your right hand then?” she asks, fighting the urge to brush back his hair. 

“Ain't no such thing as a left handed wrench.” 

“Maybe you should try.” 

He gives her a look, but switches the tool into his other hand. Things go a little faster, but they still look wrong. She frowns a little as she watches him, trying to figure out how to help him.

“Quit looking at me like you're thinkin' my brain's wired backward.” 

“I'm just watching you work. Your brain's fine.” Watching his hands makes her think about those hands in places other than an engine. Like on her skin. Or inside her. She sighs and it draws his attention. “You're good with your right. Hand. Doing some things. I mean --” 

“Yeah, I can switch,” he says, and slips the tool back into his right. 

“No, you can keep going, I was just thinking.” 

“You think too much, Doc.” 

It's the first time he's ever called her Doc, a name previously reserved for Jack. She's not sure how she feels about it. It pushes them further into the just-friends space, she supposes, though it's probably marginally better than the 'sunshine' she got earlier. She wonders if she'd appreciate one of his special nicknames, and what he might pick for her. She likes the sound of her name in his mouth, and that he calls her by it.

Finally the oil change is done. She looks for Matt, to try to see what they should work on next, but they're still alone in the workshop. “Matt never came back from lunch.” 

“Motor Pool Mysteries,” James quips. “Guess we get to knock off work early.” 

“We could clean up,” she says, and pushes back her loose strands of hair again. James's gaze follows her hands, and he grins. “What?” 

“You look like the little match girl.” 

“Frozen and starving?” 

He nods to her hands, which are covered with grease and dirt. Then he looks at her face. It's such a gentle look that she gets lost in it for a minute, until the realization comes crashing down on her that she's got dirt all over her face. She raises a hand to try to wipe it away, but it won't help. “Leave it,” he suggests. 

She shakes her head, but at least he's looking at her. “We both need to clean up before dinner.” 

“You know what they say. Save water.” 

She has no idea what he's talking about. 

“Shower with a friend,” he finishes the saying, cringing a little, like he regrets bringing it up. 

It stings. She pushes it all away, deep inside where no one will ever find it. She forces herself to give him one of her half-smiles. “After dinner, we need to wash that jumpsuit.” 

With increasing slowness, they walk back to the barracks where they're staying. Like they never want to reach their target. She watches the way the wind blows his hair across his face and how he just lets it. They're living in a house with three bedrooms, which are all shared with other single, low-ranking members of the Dharma Initiative. Like most houses in the 70s, there's only one bathroom. 

“You first,” he offers. 

She nods and goes into her room to get her shower things, like when she lived in the dorms freshman year of college. When she comes out, she sees his jumpsuit on the floor of his room and hears the record player turn on. She slips into the bathroom and closes the door tight behind her. 

Looking in the mirror, she sees a mess. The hair that escaped her ponytail is curly frizz, and she looks like a street urchin in a musical, with dirt smeared all over her face. But she remembers the expression on James's face when he pointed it out to her, like he thought it was cute, and she feels warm all over. 

She scrubs down in the shower and allows herself a little bit of fantasy. Eyes closed, hot water beating down on her neck and shoulders, she imagines him deciding to join her. His hair in the shower wet and slicked back like that day on the beach when she was kind of drunk and he rose out of the sea like Neptune, shirtless and tan and barefoot. 

She thinks about his hands. The fingers she spent the afternoon watching. How the skin might be rough and calloused and not like hers at all as his touch skims over her skin. She takes a deep breath and shuts off the water. Wiping away the steam on the mirror, she double checks to make sure her face is clean. Then she wraps up in her towel and opens the door, letting in the cool air. 

James is standing on the other side of the door. 

For a second she thinks this is her fantasy becoming reality. She thinks about letting the towel slip like in a bad movie. 

But his eyes widen and he takes a step back, his hands coming up defensively. The hands she was just daydreaming about. And she realizes this was another mistake. He heard the water go off, and he was just coming to take his turn; he didn't realize she was still in here. 

“Hope you saved me some hot water,” he says playfully. This time he hasn't averted his eyes – he's looking at her, for what feels like the first time in days. She watches him check out her bare legs and then he looks at her chest above her towel. She watches the way his lips curl appreciatively. He leans forward and she can't help it, her lips part. But he just runs his thumb along her cheekbone. “Missed a spot.” His voice close to her ear gives her chills. 

She knows he's lying and has to wonder why. They maneuver around until she's out in the hall and he's standing on tile, and then he closes the door between them. She hears the lock rattle. 

That's when she realizes she left all her stuff in the bathroom. Her jumpsuit is on the floor, with her regular clothes on top and she's pretty sure her underwear on top of that. Her shampoo, conditioner, and soap still in the shower. And her comb, which she really needs. 

But she hears the water running again and knows it's too late. She tries not to care. He's seen underwear before. She goes into her room and closes the door, then flops face-down on the bed and puts the pillow over her head, needing to disappear from the world for a while. Then she takes a deep breath, gets ready for dinner, and tries to unsnarl her hair with her fingers. 

He's in there forever. 

When she hears the bathroom door open, she moves slowly to go get her things. 

James is in the hallway with his hair wrapped up in a towel like a woman in a 1950s movie, and another towel low around his hips. She takes it all in and then looks away. “Used your shampoo. Smells nice,” he says, and the dimples betray that he's teasing her. 

She stands there thinking about how much she wants his tongue in her mouth. The longing is so strong she can hardly breathe. So she forces a breath and a calm expression, and then slips past him to grab her things. She puts the shampoo he used into her shower tote and wonders if he used the conditioner too. He must use conditioner on that hair of his. She picks up her underwear – yep, right on top – clothes, and jumpsuit. Then she goes back into her room, puts things away, and sits down on the bed to work on her hair.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Thanks to his extra-long cold shower, Sawyer is feeling more like himself again. He doesn't even begrudge her using up all the hot water, though he did take a minute or five to enjoy the privacy and contemplate what she was doing in there and who she was thinking about when she was doing it. 

He's just pretty sure it wasn't him. Her reaction when he met her in the hall and tried a little light flirting confirmed it for him. 

But he still goes to her room and leans against the doorway. He watches her for a minute as she works a comb through her hair in little sections. “Hey, mermaid. You hungry?” 

She stops and looks at him. “Almost done.” 

“I'm sure Miles 'n Jin won't mind waitin'.” He watches her for another minute. The way the curls fluff when she releases them. “Need a hand?” 

He expects a biting reply. He had her figured for a retort like she's been combing her hair for thirty years and she can handle it. Instead she holds out the comb. 

His heartbeat goes all out of rhythm as he takes it from her and sits down on the bed behind her. This is such a mistake. He assesses the situation and then separates out a thick strand. He starts out tentatively, from the bottom, with the comb, then works his way upward. He could twist her hair around his finger and it would stay coiled. 

“You've done this before,” she says evenly. 

“Time or two,” he admits. He wants to lean in and put his mouth on her neck. “Never on a curly mop.” He keeps working. She's breathing so evenly it's like she's counting, and when he shifts, he sees her eyes are closed. He finishes up, placing the comb on the bed beside her hip, and rubs his hands over her shoulders, just one long, deep stroke. 

“Are you guys fucking meditating in here? It's dinnertime,” Miles hollers at them. “We're leaving without you.” The sound dopplers by and the front door slams. 

Sawyer jumps, feeling like he's been woken up. Juliet picks up the comb and puts it away. She gives him an odd, wide-eyed look, then brushes past him with the words, “They're waiting.” 

He's pretty sure they just said they weren't waiting, but who is he to argue? He trails her to the cafeteria. It's taco Tuesday and he builds himself a tostada bowl and joins his crew. Juliet took the spot next to Jin, across from Miles. Sawyer slides into the space they left for him. 

“How was security?” he asks. 

“Sucked. Needs better leadership,” Miles says, shoveling enchilada casserole into his face. “Hear you two ended up in the motor pool.” 

“What they got you doing out there?” Sawyer asks. 

“Wandering around the jungle taking notes,” Miles says. 

“Notes?” His eyebrows go up. 

“Police work is all paperwork, man,” Miles replies. “This douchebag Phil made Jin do his over. Wouldn't let him go till it was perfect. I helped him.” 

“About that,” Sawyer says. He sighs and looks at Juliet. “We gotta teach Jin English.” 

“No shit, man,” Miles says. “Did you get one of these oatmeal cookies? Can I have it?” 

“Where's your friend from last night? She can hook you up,” Juliet suggests, but she puts her cookie on Miles's plate anyway. 

“Oh yeah,” he says, gets up, and wanders off. 

“What kinda person don't like oatmeal?” Sawyer asks her, since she surrendered her cookie so easily. 

“Just not very hungry,” she says, and puts her fork down. 

He tries really hard not to look at her with concern. He looks at Jin instead. “English,” he says. 

“He understands pretty well, I think,” Miles says, returning with a stack of cookies. “Want one?” 

Sawyer shakes his head, and so does Jin. Miles puts a cookie on Juliet's plate. She's returned to eating her taco salad, slowly.

“We've just got to get him speaking. And writing. That's gonna be the hard part.” 

“I can't believe they got you writin' book reports on security detail,” Sawyer says. 

“You teach me to write,” Jin says, and looks like he wants to say more. 

“We will,” Juliet promises, calmly. Sawyer envies her that calm, even though he's pretty sure it's an act. 

Miles starts naming everything on the table, making Jin repeat it. Lesson 1. 

Sawyer watches Juliet until she notices. She catches him before he can look away. He can still feel the silkiness of her hair on his fingertips. “You okay, sweetness?” The nickname is a way of distancing himself. 

“Long day,” she says. 

He nods, and goes back to dropping bits of taco on his plate, aware that she's watching him now. When he glances up, she turns her head. 

Miles eats about twelve more oatmeal cookies and they call it a night. Like every night, they head back to the barracks. Miles is still pointing to things and naming them for Jin, like he can teach him the entire language in an evening. 

Juliet doesn't make the turn off the main path, and Sawyer pauses. He thought she'd want to head back, maybe call it an early night. “I thought I'd see if there's anything in the library we can use to help Jin,” she says. “We need to make a plan.” 

“This is what you're frettin' over?” he asks. 

“Of all of us, he's the one who needs to stay the most. In case Sun really is out there.” 

“She ain't,” Sawyer says. 

“How do you know?” Juliet turns to him to ask. He just gives her a look. He knows. “They're married. She's pregnant.” She wraps her arms around herself like she's cold, but he knows it's because she's upset, thinking about it. He wants to put his arms around her, but he can't. 

“You ever want kids?” he asks, watching her face. 

“I don't know. Maybe?” Her voice rises. “It's not going to happen here.” 

“There's kids here. Whole school. I seen 'em.” 

She shakes her head. The light catches the waves in her hair.

“That why you keep sayin' you need to get off this island?” he asks. “You wanna have a different kind of life?” 

“I was Ben's prisoner for three years,” she says. “Yes, I want something different. But it's not some desperation to escape so I can get knocked up.” 

“You ever --” He gestures, because he's not quite sure where that question was meant to go. And yes, he can see she's pissed off, but at least he knows he can make her feel something. 

“Once. In med school.” She watches his reaction, so he tries not to have one, keeping his face neutral. Even though images flood through his mind. “False alarm.” 

They go into the rec room. It's deserted. “Wanna play pool?” He drags his fingers along the cues. 

“I already know you're a hustler,” she says, heading for the bookshelves. 

“How do you know that?” he asks, feeling a little hurt. Not that she's wrong. 

“I've met you,” she says flatly. She gets down on her knees and starts pulling books off the shelves. 

“What'd you find? Idiot's Guide to Teaching English?” 

“I wish,” she says, and shows him the colorful books she's selected. Dr. Seuss. She picks up the bunch. He holds out his hand for her to grab so he can pull her up, but she doesn't take it. She straightens up on her own. His heart sinks a little, but at least he remembered not to hold the door for her tonight. 

“What's the rush,” he says. 

“We still have to do laundry, unless you like running around smelling like a boar pissed in your gas tank. Here's a hint – you don't.” 

“I thought you liked it.” He gives her one of his looks that he knows is charming. 

“I said I like the smell of gasoline. That uniform was something else.” 

“What is it about that smell?” he asks. 

She gives a tiny shrug. “Maybe it's forbidden fruit. It smells so good, you just want to put it in your mouth. But it's poison. So you'll never know what it tastes like, not really. But you can imagine how it would feel on your tongue, going down.” 

He feels like they're not talking about gas anymore. They stand there together for a moment. Breathing. Looking into each other's eyes. He starts looking at her lips and his breath speeds up. That's when the handful of books hits him in the chest. He puts his arms around them to keep them from falling. “What?” 

“Do your own laundry,” she says, and for the second night in a row, slams out of the rec room. This is getting to be a habit.

“Son of a bitch,” he says softly. He lets the books drop and then bends down to pick them up again. She really, really doesn't like him. He sits down heavily on the floor, wondering how he's going to get her out of his head. 

No answers come, so he piles up the books. In doing so, he spots another one on the shelf, one he didn't think was around yet. He adds it to the stack, and heads back to the barracks. 

He drops the books on his bed and grabs the nasty jumpsuit from the floor in his room and thinks about doing the rest of his wash. He's not sure he wants to put it all in together, but he doesn't have that much. He also looks around for something to read while he's waiting on it, but then he remembers he finished Carrie. So he picks up his surprise find from the library. 

In spite of himself, he stops by Juliet's door. He almost relishes that he got a reaction out of her, even though it was the opposite one he wanted. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hey.” It takes her a minute to look up, even though she's sitting cross-legged on her bed, apparently engrossed in plucking at the blanket. There's the tiniest frown lines in her forehead, like she was thinking about something. 

“You mentioned some kinda handbook,” he says. He wants to ask her what she's thinking about. 

“You that hard up for reading material? I'll let you have Centennial back.” It's a joke, and something tight in his chest eases up. Maybe she's not so mad at him. 

“Gotta know what the rules are before I can break 'em, sweetheart.” 

“In that case.” She picks up the binder from underneath the Michener book on her desk. Then she cocks her head as she looks at him. “I thought you said you were in this for the long haul.” He doesn't say anything. “You don't have to get kicked out. You can just leave.” 

“I'm not going anywhere.” He takes the binder from her hand, and looks down at it. “You read it?” 

“No one reads handbooks, James.” 

“Even do-gooder types?” He means like the people who join the Dharma Initiative on purpose. But he sees it hit home with her, like he meant she was one of them. “I'll bring it back.” 

He trudges to the laundry room. It's empty, but steamy in there. He buys one of the little packets of soap and wonders if dryer sheets have been invented yet. Then he throws in the jumpsuit on hot and closes the lid, and parks his ass in one of the plastic chairs to listen to the washing machine churn. He's too busy thinking to open a book. 

He goes after what he wants. But he saw how that can backfire. He went after Kate hard and it pushed her away, something that still puzzles him, no matter how many times he takes it apart in his head. He went for her, and she liked him, but not enough. 

He's used to getting what he wants. He's used to moving people around like pawns on a chessboard. He was never quite as good at it as he liked to think. 

But this is different. He's surrounded by thousands of miles of water and thirty years of time. Make a mistake here, and there's no escaping it. Her. 

So he holds back. 

He needs to hold back more, not dream up some way to get her. Every time he goes to her in a weak moment, every time he messes up and looks at her for real, it just makes him feel it more when she pushes him away. That's another thing he learned from Kate – he's tired of being hurt. 

…

Juliet can't sleep. Even a hundred pages of the history of dinosaurs in Colorado doesn't do it. She hasn't heard James come home yet. She doubts he could get into much trouble doing laundry, but she still can't lie still long enough to let sleep come. 

Finally she gives up and gets up. She listens to the soft breaths and snores coming from her housemates. Quietly, she slips into the kitchen in the darkness. She opens the freezer and finds what she's looking for, then reaches into the drawer for a spoon. 

The first taste of the ice cream is all burning coldness in her mouth and she closes her eyes to savor it. 

When she opens her eyes, James is standing there. She startles in spite of herself, her body jolting. 

“Don't let me stop you,” he says in a low voice. So he won't wake anyone else. “Brought this back.” He sets the Dharma Initiative handbook on the counter silently. 

“How was it?” She raises an eyebrow. 

“No plot.” 

She nods, acknowledging his joke. She studies him in the dim light. His brows are drawn like he's worried about something. He hands her the folded blue uniform. “This pass the smell test now?” 

Keenly aware of his eyes on her, she holds the fabric up to her nose and inhales. “A-plus.” It smells like laundry detergent. She refolds it for him before setting it on top of the binder. Then she looks at him again. 

“Ice cream's meltin'.” 

She takes another spoon out of the drawer and holds it out to him. He takes it with his left hand. She scoops out another bite for herself and puts it into her mouth, savoring it. James takes a spoonful as well.

“You wait up for me?” he teases. 

She shrugs. “Couldn't sleep.” She eats more of the ice cream. It's plain chocolate, generic but decent. 

He tucks his hair behind his ears. She watches the motion and finds herself admiring his ears, rarely visible, somehow finding them perfect and adorable. After a second, his hair slips free again, falling back against his cheekbones. She wants to run her hands through it, brush it back for him. 

“There's scissors in the drawer,” she says, a wry suggestion. 

“You don't like my hair?” He looks a little stricken. 

“I love your hair,” she declares. His dimples deepen. The ice cream has gone to her head. 

“I love your hair too, blondie,” he teases back. 

She shakes her head at his insincerity, but thinks about his combing out her tangles earlier that evening. How patient and careful he was. The way it felt to have him sitting so close to her, his breath against her neck. She still doesn't understand why that happened. Why he would offer. She understands why she let him, and thinking about it fills her stomach with nerves.

She takes another bite of ice cream, then puts the lid back on. He never had more than that one spoonful. She pops the container back into the freezer and takes his spoon and puts it in the sink with hers. She thinks that if she kissed him now, his lips would be hot against hers, which are cold from the ice cream. 

But she's not going to. She can't. So she picks up the binder from the counter and holds it against her chest, suddenly aware that her mouth and fingertips aren't the only thing that's cold. She's about to say goodnight when she spots the other book he had with him. She sets the handbook down and picks up James's book and studies the black line drawing on the white cover. “I love this book.” It's Where the Sidewalk Ends. “I didn't think it was out now.” She looks at James. “You've read it?” 

He gives her a look that's a begrudging admission. 

“Lines from these poems pop into my head at the weirdest times,” she says. She opens it and starts paging through it. Every illustration is like reuniting with an old friend. Sneaking a glance at him, she wonders if it's the same for him. It's still such a surprise to her that he's a reader, that they have something in common.

“I thought, for Jin,” he says. “Better than little kids' books.” 

“Which one's your favorite?” she asks, still turning the pages. “I can't pick.” But she stops on one page and says, “Oh.” Maybe she can pick, after all. “I cried so hard when I read this the first time.” She lays her hand against it, touching the drawing of two goofy, fat unicorns.

He leans in over her shoulder to see what she's looking at, and she feels the heat radiating from his body. He doesn't touch her, but he could. The poem is “The Unicorn.” He lets out a noisy sigh. “Left 'em behind.” 

It all kind of crashes over her then, the events of the past few months. Ben ordering her around. Going to the beach while the others went to the temple. The Zodiac taking off for the freighter, leaving her on the beach alone to watch the black smoke from it curl into the sky. She's always the one getting left behind. “It's late,” she says, but her voice breaks. 

“They weren't alone,” he says, talking about the pair of unicorns in the poem. He sighs again as his arms come up around her. He pulls her head down against his shoulder and absorbs her damnable tears. He strokes her hair and she puts the unicorns out of her mind, puts it all out of her mind, and stops crying. She kind of wishes he'd keep holding her forever, but she's embarrassed too, and she's learned something new about him. He's the kind of man who'll hold a woman when she cries. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs, shifting away. His arms drop back to his sides and she wipes her face. He's not looking at her. He's kind of staring in the direction of the book on the counter. “I should get some sleep.” She reaches for the book. 

He puts his hand down on it. Reclaiming it as his. “You don't need it,” he says, like a warning. 

Like he knows she'll sit there and read it again and cry. But the joke's on him, because she goes back to her room and lies down in her little twin bed alone and cries anyway. This time with the memory of his strong, solid arms around her. 

…

Life quickly settles into something like a pattern. Sawyer struggles with it, every day being the same. His friends even eat the same thing for breakfast every day. When he tries to mix it up at the make-your-own waffle station, Juliet just frowns at him. She has oatmeal with fruit on her tray, just like she does every day. “We're going to be late,” she says. 

“Late for another day of useless work,” he says. “Boy howdy.” He flips the waffle and uses a fork to put it on his plate, then drowns it with syrup. “Not gonna get fired.” 

“You're not going to do this,” she says in her scary calm voice. 

“Do what?” he snaps. 

“Get bored, then dream up some scheme to keep yourself occupied, and cause trouble for the rest of us.” 

He presses his lips together and glares at her. It feels good. It makes his heart pound in his chest. Makes him feel alive. Even though she's totally got his number and he kind of hates that. 

“Mommy's getting angry,” Miles snickers. 

“No,” Juliet says, and turns that icy rage on Miles. “I'm trying to keep this together.” 

“Who asked you to?” Sawyer challenges her. It's like waving the red cape in front of the bull and he is delighted. “It ain't fallin' apart.”

“Fine,” she says. “Be late. I don't care.” She extracts herself from the bench attached to their table. 

“Oh no, I might get me a detention,” Sawyer says, just to tick her off more. 

Juliet ignores him. She takes her tray over to where it gets returned, and walks out of the cafeteria. Sawyer watches her go, looking at the stiffness in her shoulders. He thinks about how even when she's pissed and can't get away fast enough, she follows the rules and puts things away. He looks at Miles. 

“You need to do something about that,” Miles says, and nods in the direction Juliet went. 

“What'm I supposed to do?” Sawyer demands. 

“That chick's sexually frustrated, you figure it out.” 

Sawyer cocks his head. “You think?” 

Miles rolls his eyes. “C'mon, Jin. We don't want to have to run laps again.” 

“They make you run laps? If you're late?” Sawyer is incredulous. He didn't know how good he had it in the boring old motor pool. 

Jin nods, and he and Miles make their exits. 

Sawyer hunkers down over his waffle, but now it feels like the syrup is burning this throat with its intense sweetness and the waffle itself has gone soggy. He chugs the rest of his coffee, then heads out for work. 

When he gets there, the clock reads that it's exactly on the hour, and their boss is nowhere to be seen. Juliet's reorganizing the supply of parts. “Well, well, well,” Sawyer says. “Right on time.” He leans against the table, intentionally a little too close to where she's working, so he'll be in the way. He enjoyed irritating her – getting a reaction out of her – so he's going to keep doing it. It's more fun than doing oil changes.

“It's not useless,” she says, without looking at him. 

“You startin' to believe in this Dharma shit?” he asks. 

“No.” She raises her head and her eyes meet his, and he believes her. Then she goes back to sorting little metal things that rattle in their compartments. He looks at the way her mouth turns down at the corners. 

He changes his mind about annoying her. 

“You're right,” he sighs. Her sorting stops. “I'm gettin' kinda bored.” He looks at her. Studies her. She's got her hair straightened and tied back in a neat ponytail. There's no dirt under her fingernails. He's got to say what he's got to say. “I'm not a thing for you to try an' control.” 

“I'm well aware of that, James,” she says, and there's an ice warning in her voice. 

He frowns, wondering what it is she wants him to do that he ain't doing. Besides taking the Dharma Initiative super seriously. He knows this ain't about that. “What do you want from me?” he asks, making his voice low and soft, because he wants a real answer, even though he knows she's not going to tell him what he really wants to hear. 

She stands there, tense and silent, for a long moment. He can't get a read on her. When she looks at him again, she's got her mask back in place, that smirk he recognizes so well. “Don't fuck this up for all of us, James.” 

“I'm the one who got us in here instead of wandering around the jungle,” he reminds her. “Beds. Food.”

“You're also the one who got us to stay. For you.” 

He blows out a sigh and shakes back his hair. “You're still holdin' that over my head? Is that so bad? A person don't do anything he don't want to do.” 

“Then why are you the one who's unhappy here?” 

He looks at her with wide eyes. Blinks, because he's stunned. His mind is blank as far as comebacks go.

She just smirks. Like she won. 

All he wants to do is put his hands around her waist and shove her up against that workbench and kiss the smirk right off her face. He wants to hold her wrists in his hands until she stops fighting him and sinks into the kiss he wants so badly to give her. In his mind, it's all real for a second. 

Until he blinks, and it fades, and she's still looking up at him with that challenge in her eyes. 

So he kicks the toolbox as hard as he can, and groans, and limps away. The pain clears everything out of his head.

He hears the soft rattle as she takes up her sorting again. It gets under his skin and he can't tune it out. He sits down, still feeling the throbbing in his toes. He puts his feet up and picks up the repair manual for the vans and starts reading it. He listens to her drop the metal parts into their bins like rain hammering on a tin roof. 

Matt finally shows up and announces, “There's an engine with your names on it.” 

It's all Sawyer can do to keep himself from saying “Oh, hell no,” out loud. He's not sure he can take another day of being Mr. All-Thumbs serving at the feet of Miss Perfect. 

“I'm not asking,” Matt says, playing the boss card like he read Sawyer's mind. “Number three's been knocking and misfiring. Take it apart and put it back together. Now.” 

Sawyer wonders how spectacularly he would have to fuck up to get himself reassigned somewhere else. He touches his blank jumpsuit pocket and wonders what the hell Horace is waiting for, or if he read that situation entirely wrong. He gets up and winces a little, then limps over to the number three van. 

Juliet glances at him. “You break your toe?” 

“How's your screws?” he shoots back. 

“Less talking, more working,” Matt suggests. 

Sawyer sighs and glares, and settles down. “You think it's weird he's never around?” he hisses. 

“He's here now,” Juliet points out. She's doing things to the engine. Unhooking things, taking things out. Starting to disassemble it. She hands him the pieces and he knows it's his job to keep them in some kind of order so she'll be able to put it all back. She doesn't let him work on the engine directly. He bristles at it a little bit, but he knows what he doesn't know, and besides, he doesn't care. 

He watches her work. Her long, skinny fingers move with the same kind of confidence he imagines she had as a doctor, or medical researcher, or whatever it was she did in the real world. Maybe this is all a mistake. Being here, staying here. They're not even looking for Locke and the others, they're just sitting around, waiting. He's never been good at being passive. 

But these Dharma saps are too boring to even try to pull a con on. He can't even think of a small one. If he stays here long enough, he's going to become boring too. 

Would a normal life really be so bad? As normal as it can be on a crazy island having traveled thirty years back in time to live in a cult. 

Looking at her face, he wonders if in his secret heart, boring and normal is what he's always wanted. 

…

Teaching English to Jin becomes part of their routine. They all eat dinner in the cafeteria together, then walk back to the barracks and sit down together at the dining room table with books and paper and pencils. 

“We gotta teach him more practical stuff,” Miles says. “I'm still doing his paperwork for him and it pisses Phil off.” 

“They still ain't got you a real boss out there?”

“Nope,” Miles says. 

“Did you bring one of the reports?” Juliet asks. She looks at Jin, who still looks eager to learn. Eager to please. She wants to help him.

Miles pulls some folded papers out of his pocket and passes them to her. “Top secret.” 

James snatches the papers out of her hand when he hears that. He unfolds them, smoothing out the wrinkles, and frowns a little bit as he reads. 

“What is it?” she asks, watching him. 

“These ain't words you can point to. These're concepts.” He sounds frustrated.

She takes the papers, and he lets her. She looks them over. “But they're things they experienced today. Not totally abstract.” She glances at Miles for confirmation. 

“It's a long way from hop on pop to patrolled grid 107 lookin' for evidence of Hostiles.” James still sounds irritated, and she wonders why. In some ways, it's still his default setting. 

“It would be a lot easier if we had someone who speaks Korean,” Juliet agrees. 

“Maybe you're on to something,” James says. He turns to Miles. “Check out Charlotte's mom, since we know Red learned it at some point, then ask your friend in the dining hall.” 

“Why me?” Miles asks. 

“She's your friend, ain't she?” 

Miles gamely starts to get up. 

“I didn't mean now,” Sawyer says, but it doesn't stop Miles. 

Juliet smiles. Who's the control freak now, she thinks, then turns to Jin, who's been watching and listening. “Let's work on copying it out,” she says, and mimes writing. “These reports are probably more or less the same every day.” 

She shifts her chair so she's sitting next to Jin. She points to the first word on the report. He reads it, slowly, sounding it out. Having to work with a completely different written alphabet system than he's used to has only added to their challenges. She has him write it and looks at it when he's done. His handwriting is terrible, but that doesn't matter. 

Once Jin gets going, there's not much for her to do. She half-listens to his pronunciations and corrects them when needed. She looks at James across the table. He's not paying attention to them. He seems absorbed by the Cat in the Hat. Jin's read it to them all so many times they could recite it in their sleep, so she's pretty sure he's faking it. She's just not sure why. 

He hasn't turned a page in a while, either. 

Then his foot touches hers under the table. They all go barefoot in the house, so it's skin to skin. Her heart jumps. She thinks it's an accident, but he doesn't pull away. He just keeps pretending to read, so she doesn't know what to think. 

His other foot joins the first, between her ankles. Now she thinks he's just stretching out. But then he raises his eyes over the top of his book and there's a playful twinkle in them. She gives him a curious look. He raises one foot and rubs it against her ankle. 

She half-smiles. Her skin is tingling. She lifts one foot and runs it along his shin on the outside of his jeans. His eyes dip back down onto the page, but his dimples are deep in his cheeks – it's not a hidden smile by any means. He's enjoying this. 

She has to wonder why he's flirting with her. It's harmless enough, and maybe that's the answer. He can't help himself sometimes, and it doesn't matter who, specifically. It wouldn't have to be her, she just happens to be there. Maybe this is what boredom has driven him to. He's still stroking her leg with his foot, and she has to fight against showing any reaction to what it's doing to her. 

Because it feels good. Not just being touched by him, but him showing interest in her. Even if he's just messing around out of boredom. It's exciting. 

Her foot nudges under the hem of his jeans and strokes along the top of his foot. 

He ups the ante. His foot moves upward, and strokes the inside of her thigh. She's not expecting it, and it takes everything she has not to let it show. 

“What's going on here?” Miles has returned. He stands over the table, looking at the three of them. Juliet manages not to jump like she's been caught. James's feet vanish from her personal space. Miles sprawls into a chair. “Nobody here speaks any other languages,” he reports. 

“At all?” 

“Teacher in the school speaks Latin. What's the point of Latin?” Miles rests his chin on his fist. 

“Language of the enlightened,” James says, and Juliet wants to laugh. His eyes slide sidelong and find hers for just a second. It feels significant.

“Anyway, that's all they've got. Some high school French and Spanish. That Chinese couple speaks about as much Chinese as I do.” His eyes are hooded when he mentions them. “Which is none,” Miles clarifies. He shifts around and looks at Jin's paper. “This looks good.” 

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Juliet suggests. She starts gathering up their learning materials. James hands her The Cat in the Hat. She can't resist asking. “How was it?” 

“Surprising,” he says. 

She wonders what the hell that means. And she wonders if this is going to happen again.


	3. Chapter 3

She goes to bed but she can't sleep. Juliet lies there, thoughts circling. Thinking about his foot on her leg and then against her thigh. What would have happened if Miles hadn't come in just then? 

Nothing, with Jin right there. She knows this. 

She also knows that it didn't mean anything to James. He flirts, that's what he does. It's like breathing air; he can't help it. He's been, if anything, more subdued than usual lately. Because he doesn't want to flirt with her. She just happens to be the one who's there. 

Flopping over in bed, she asks herself what she wants here. Sure, she fantasizes about his lips, and his hands, and the weight of his body pressing into hers. His hair, and his arms around her, and his eyes watching her. The sound of his voice close against her ear. 

But that's all physical, and what she wants... that's just the surface. 

She won't even let herself think about what lies underneath. 

So she catapults herself up out of bed, because she knows if she stays there, she's just going to keep thinking instead of sleeping. She slips silently into the kitchen and drinks a glass of water from the tap. 

“We gotta stop meeting like this.” 

James's low, smooth voice comes from somewhere behind her. She manages not to jump this time, but instead turns around slowly. She's not sure how she didn't notice him there. He's sitting in the chair in the corner of the living room, with his feet up on the coffee table. The lamp is on, but turned to the lowest setting of the dimmer switch. His finger is stuck between the pages of a book, and he's looking at her. 

Her fingers tug at the hem of the oversized t-shirt that she wore to bed. His eyes are dark and intense in the low yellow light. She refills the water glass and brings it with her into the living room, curling up on the couch with her legs under her, pulling the shirt to cover her knees. She takes a sip and then sets the glass on the coffee table. 

He sets the book aside. She can't see the title. He's wearing cotton boxer shorts and a dark gray t-shirt. She's not sure she's ever seen his bare legs before. They're on a tropical island but he wears jeans constantly. “Can't exactly sleep nude with roommates,” he says, watching her study him. 

There are six people in the house. Miles and Jin share a room with each other; James and Juliet each share with a stranger. They tolerate each other, but don't talk much. “They must have had the whole place to themselves before we came,” she realizes. 

“Who, Ken 'n Barbie?” 

She chuckles. The names fit. “We could be Ken and Barbie ourselves,” she says. His eyes drift down and his mouth opens. She realizes she could use some support underneath her baggy t-shirt and crosses her arms over her chest. “Maybe not Barbie.” 

He blinks and his mouth closes and he looks at her face. “No, I was thinkin' – is that my t-shirt?” 

She plucks at the bright blue fabric. “Oh. I don't know. Maybe? I found it in with the clean laundry.” 

“Looks better on you,” he says, and lets out a long sigh. He stretches, long and lean as a cat. She picks up her water glass before he kicks it over. He's watching her now with sleepy eyes. 

“You should go to bed before you fall asleep here,” she suggests. 

“We never did talk about your book.” 

“My b – Oh. Carrie,” she remembers. 

“It's kinda late for book club,” he allows. “I don't wanna get up tomorrow. I hate havin' a boss, and I want to sleep in.” 

“Sitting up all night reading probably doesn't help.” 

“Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinkin' about...” His eyes slide over her again and she feels hot. “Stuff,” he finishes. 

She could make a move right now and he wouldn't push her away. They can both feel it. The vulnerability of the night, the darkness, of sitting here both half-naked, looking at each other. But she knows it's occurred to him too, and he's not acting on it. He's sitting there, completely still. It would be a fling, and it would mean nothing to him, and it would be awkward in the morning. 

She wants so much more than that. 

She watches him breathing, the slow measure of it. His tongue wets his lips. His eyes are starting to close. “I think you can sleep now,” she says softly. 

He sighs and rouses, picking up his feet from the table and putting them on the floor. “After you, princess,” he invites. 

For a second, she resists, aware that the t-shirt barely covers the tops of her thighs. But she decides she doesn't mind if he looks at her ass, knowing he's going to, so she gets to her feet. She does tug the shirt down. She looks over her shoulder at him, and he shifts in the chair to click off the lamp. A little bit of moonlight filters in, just enough to see by. She puts her water glass in the sink and he's still standing in the living room. 

Fine, she thinks, and goes back into her bedroom. A moment later he passes by her door. She lies down and faces the wall, realizing for the first time that he's just on the other side of it. She hears his bed groan under his weight, and thinks she hears the rustling of his sheets as he burrows in, getting comfortable. She wraps her arms around herself, thinking of this t-shirt on his body before it was on hers. She pulls up her knees and hears him make a deep, satisfied sound in the back of his throat on the other side of the wall, and then she can sleep. 

…

Sawyer pauses in her doorway in the morning. She's so wrapped up in her sheets that he can only see the top of her blond head. “Rise 'n shine, sleepyhead,” he says. 

“No.” She burrows in. 

“Now who's gonna be late for work?” He teases from the doorway. She puts her pillow over her head. On an impulse, he steps into the room and pulls back the covers to get her up. 

It's a mistake. 

That damnable blue t-shirt has ridden up, exposing her smooth, pale stomach. He stands there frozen for a second. She shoves her pillow off her head and rolls over. Her lips curve into an inviting smile, and her eyes are dark blue. “Hey,” she says, looking up at him. It's seductive as hell. 

All he wants is to put his knee down on her bed and then climb in with her. On top of her. 

Instead he tosses the sheet back over her body and takes a step back. “See you there.” He hurries out of her room, trying to put away the image that's now burned into his brain. 

Miles is in the living room, waiting to go to the cafeteria for breakfast. “You okay, man? You look like you saw a ghost.” 

“Let's go,” Sawyer growls. 

“Where's Juliet?” 

“Not up yet. Let's go,” he says insistently. He wants to run.

“Go wake her up then, we can wait.” 

“I did,” Sawyer says. 

“Oh – ohhhh,” Miles says. “You gotta do something about this, man.” 

“I'm going.” Sawyer reaches for the door. 

“Wait a second,” Juliet says from the hall. Her voice is perfectly calm. “Wait for me.” She appears, in her jumpsuit, shoes on, hair brushed, like she wasn't just rolling around in her sheets. She strides past them, headed for the cafeteria. 

“You got it bad,” Miles says to him a low voice. 

“She'll hear you.” 

“Notice you're not denying it,” Miles says. 

“I am too,” Sawyer says furiously, scowling. 

“Idiots. Both of you.” Miles leaves him trailing behind. 

Sawyer disagrees with this too. It's just one of them: him. He's adding it up in his head, the same way he did last night before he gave up on sleeping. 

He's rapidly losing control of this situation, losing control of himself. There's only so many cold showers he can take. He needs to back off all of this until she gives him some kinda sign she might be interested. 

That's the thing that's killing him the most. They spend almost every waking hour together – eating, working, everything. She's friendly; they're friends, kind of. Except when she goes all weirdly hot and cold on him, but that hasn't been happening as much lately. He just gets a lot of...friendly. 

They're going to be here a long time. It's not a long con. There's no end date. It could be forever. Don't fuck this up, he orders himself. 

She's going to start thinking he's a creep. He's been acting like one. He needs to treat her like a guy. Like Miles. Wait, no, like a guy he likes. Like a friend. Like the doc...shit, not like Jack either. 

This is his problem. 

This is the whole problem. 

He has no idea what he's doing.

And while it takes his mind off his lonely cock, and her eyes, and chest, and hair, and everything – it kind of feels like being stabbed in the heart. 

“'m gonna go,” he says, more to himself than to the others, and slinks out of the cafeteria. 

He's never been with anyone without wanting something from them. He's never just been with someone, for companionship or love or friendship. That part of him is gone, if it ever existed, and he's never really missed it till just now. 

Even Kate. That was about the challenge, the chase, the thrill of seduction. Usin' each other, and lust. That's why she kept runnin' off after Jack, Mr. Stability and Normal. They're probably off livin' happily ever after. He sure hopes so. 

Being real with himself, he does want something from Juliet, too. But what he wants isn't just a distraction, or company for a night or two. They went back thirty years in time and they are stuck. For good. 

He rubs his eyes when he hears her coming up behind him. “Thought you might want this,” she says, holding out a big paper cup. She looks at him carefully. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, and rubs his nose for good measure before he takes the cup from her. It starts to burn his fingers instantly, but he takes a sip anyway. It's strong, bitter coffee. It feels good going down, hitting his bloodstream. 

“You never made it over to the optometrist,” she says. 

“Huh?” 

“You used to have glasses. On the beach. For reading. I remember now,” she says. “But they must have gotten lost with... everything else.” 

He just drinks the coffee, feeling it scald all the way down. 

“I'll cover for you,” she says. He looks at her questioningly. “If you want to go now. I'll cover.” 

Cause that's just what he needs to impress her. Another set of lenses through which to view the world. He sighs. But it would be nice if his head didn't hurt quite so much. Maybe he'd even do better at fixing up the vans, if the small parts weren't such a strain to get into focus. And he doesn't really want to be here today, standing next to her and thinking about how inadequate he is. “Thanks.” 

He takes the coffee with him, and heads over to the infirmary. The nurse tells him to take a seat, and he sits down in a wooden chair next to the only other patient, a kid with a shiner who's holding a pair of glasses that have been broken in two. For some reason, Sawyer can't help looking at this kid. 

“You kick the other guy's ass?” he asks, finally. 

The kid just looks at him with one bright blue eye, since the other one's swollen shut. Then he looks away. Looks down at the broken glasses. 

Sawyer presses his lips together. He knows that feeling and it makes his stomach hurt. He got knocked around plenty when he was even younger than this kid. He wants to tell him that he don't deserve it, but he knows it's better not to say anything. Damn Dharma Initiative hypocrites, he thinks, all Namaste and crap but beating up their kids. 

The doctor appears at the door. “What happened to your backup pair, Ben?” he asks. 

“That was my backup pair.” The kid curls in on himself a little more. 

“I'll see what I can do, but we'll have to wait for the sub to get you a new pair. Maybe something sturdier.” 

“Cause that'll fix it,” Sawyer says, before he can stop himself. They both look at him. “Kid doesn't need a stronger pair a glasses. He needs to not get hit in the face.” 

“That's being addressed --” The doctor looks for his name on his pocket, but of course there isn't one. 

“LaFleur,” he supplies. 

“You're the boat captain,” the doctor says. 

“You've got a boat?” says the kid, and he sounds so damn hopeful. 

“Not anymore, kid.” 

The doctor takes the glasses and sends the kid back to class with an ice pack. Then he nods to Sawyer and they go back to the exam room. The doctor sets the kid's glasses aside. “What can I help you with today?” 

“I get headaches, from reading. Had me a pair of glasses, but, well,” he says. 

“We'll get you fixed up,” says the doctor. “Probably have to put in the order to come on the next sub, so it'll be a few weeks.” 

“I been managin' so far,” he says, and they go through the whole routine. The big chart with the E on the top, the lights shining in his eyes, better or worse with the lenses. “How'd I do?” he asks at the end. 

The doctor ignores it, and for a moment, Sawyer really misses Jack. “You'll hear when the next sub comes in. Stop by and see me then,” the doctor says dryly. 

Dismissed, Sawyer heads back outside. He doesn't feel much like working, but it's not even close to lunchtime. He stops a minute and watches the jumpsuit types scurrying here and there. The smell of fresh-cut grass fills his nose and he inhales deeply. It smells like home. He turns and sees a long-haired guy in a tan jumpsuit working an old style mower. 

Two details jump out at him immediately. He's not sure which one he processes first. The guy's pocket reads Roger Workman. And his fist is bruised. 

This guy's the one that hit the kid. Probably his dad. Of course it's his dad, random adults don't go around punching kids, even here in Dharmaville. Sawyer feels a hot flash of anger and his own hands fist up. But he stays where he is. Watching. Because he knows this guy is going to die, he's going to die wearing that same jumpsuit with his name stitched on the pocket. He's never going to make it off of this rock, and thirty years from now Sawyer's going to drink his beer and hold his skull in his hands. 

The guy notices Sawyer staring and stops mowing for a second. He kind of waves. Sawyer just stomps back to work. 

Juliet's alone in the workshop and she seems perfectly content and in the zone, doing something complicated with small parts. She looks up when she hears him coming. “What'd they say?” 

“This is a weird fucking island.” 

“James?” she asks, not understanding. 

He shakes his head. Lets his hair fall into his eyes. “Gotta wait for 'em to come on the sub in a couple weeks.” 

“They'll be here before you know it,” she says. She stops and looks at him more closely. “You okay?” 

“Can't get my head out of the past. Or the future,” he says. It's 1974; he'll be five this year. How old was he when his daddy started in on him? The first time he tried to draw that rage away from his mama? Five years old. Fuck. 

“Time to get to work.” Matt's suddenly standing next to him with a broom in his hand. 

“Oh, you're here,” Sawyer says with sarcastic surprise. But he lets it drop and instead takes the broom. The one thing he's good at here in the motor pool. 

“When you're done, you can go run off some more copies of the checkout sheet,” Matt says. Then he turns to Juliet and puts his hand on her shoulder. “Nice work.” 

Sawyer glares at that hand. Juliet looks like she doesn't like it much either. He starts sweeping furiously, wondering where all this dust and dirt even comes from. When it's done, he grabs the van sign out sheet and heads for the main office. 

This is his least favorite task, because no one's invented photocopiers or laser printers yet as far as he can tell. Making copies involves the purple fluid he liked to huff off worksheets in grade school. As an adult, it's nasty and messy. Betty in the office showed him how to use the machine, but she won't do it for him, no matter how hard he tries to charm her into it. 

Horace is just coming out of his office. “Hey, LaFleur,” he says in greeting. 

“Hey yourself,” Sawyer shoots back. 

“How are things at the motor pool? Anything interesting going on?” 

That's it. That's his clue, that's what Horace is testing him with. Because there is something going on at the motor pool, and whatever it is, Matt's involved. Sawyer just hasn't figured it out yet. He didn't know until this moment that's what he was supposed to be doing. “Hard to say,” he replies. 

“You just keep on keepin' on,” Horace suggests, and Sawyer's pretty sure that phrase sounded a lot cooler in his head before he said it out loud. Horace continues on his way to wherever it was he was going, and Sawyer keeps making copies. 

He returns with seventeen smelly damp sheets just in time for lunch. Juliet's waiting for him, and they go to the cafeteria. They hardly ever see Miles and Jin at lunchtime – it's just the two of them. “I think I'm finally getting the hang of the flat four engine,” she says, and she sounds happy. 

He wonders how she can be happy about something so mundane. But he says, “You seem content here.” 

“It's not Paris, but it's pretty okay,” she says. “Did something happen at the eye doctor?” 

He thinks about telling her. But she's in a good mood, and he doesn't want to see pity in her eyes. He thinks she's never been hit in her life, even though he knows on this island it's not the least bit true. So he shakes his head and hides behind his hair a little bit. She watches him while she's eating, but beyond that she lets him. 

He almost wishes that she would push him to say more, but he also likes that she gives him his space. It feels like respect. He could open up to her and he knows she would listen. But he doesn't have to. 

They head back to the workshop early, which is his plan. Matt's still there. He hasn't taken off for his usual afternoon sojourn yet. Sawyer tries to look nonchalant, straightening and restraightening the checkout sheets. They've smeared to the point of being almost unreadable. He doesn't even care. 

When Matt takes off, without a word, Sawyer wipes his hands on a rag and keeps his eyes on the boss. 

“What are you doing?” Juliet asks. 

“Followin' Uncle Traveling Matt.” 

“Why?” 

“Cause I want to know what he's up to.” He glances at her. “You stay here.” 

“No,” she says, getting up. She takes a step to block him. “I won't stay here. I'm going with you.” Her stubborn look is one he's come to recognize, and even appreciate. But not today. 

“I don't need help,” he says. He's more stubborn than she is, any day. This is his business and his alone. 

“What's today's code for the fence?” she asks. 

“What?” 

“What's today's code for the fence?” she repeats, knowing that he doesn't know the answer. 

“Maybe he ain't going outside the fence.” 

“Of course he is,” she says. “Come on.” She takes up the lead. After a second, he follows. He's not letting her go alone, unarmed. And by stopping, he lost sight of Matt, which means the trail is all they've got, and he can track about as well as he can fix an engine. 

The motor pool is at the edge of the compound, and they're in the trees pretty quickly. His hands feel empty and he realizes this is the first time in a very long time he's been out here without a gun. It sends another spike of adrenaline through him. At least he has Juliet to protect him, he thinks sarcastically. 

She moves silently ahead of him, her steps swift and sure in the jungle. He feels like they all think he's some kind of bumbling fool, but this was his idea. He follows, staying close, thinking he's responsible for her out here. 

Matt crosses through the fence. “Son of a bitch,” Sawyer mutters. She was right. Of course she was. At least if she gives him a smug look, she's far enough ahead of him that he doesn't see it. 

Juliet punches in the code for the fence and they slip through as well. “It's 82235,” she says, reactivating it from the other side. 

“Why're you telling me this?” he asks. 

“Just in case,” she says, trying to be neutral. It spikes fear through his chest anyway. She's telling him so he can get back in without her, if he has to. If something happens to her out here. He wants to pull her into his arms and reassure her – reassure himself. But she's off again, eating up the terrain with long strides. He whispers the code to himself, to cement it in his head, and follows. 

He hadn't realized how safe he'd started to feel in Dharmaville until he was out of it, back out in the jungle, with weird creatures and weirder people. 

They track their boss for awhile in silence. Down by the stream, Matt stops. They duck down to stay out of sight, but they can both see why he's stopped. A woman is waiting for him. She's already naked, and after embracing him, starts to pull off his clothes. 

“Is she one of the Hostiles?” Juliet whispers, her breath hot against his ear. 

“It's Miles's lunch lady,” Sawyer says. 

“Oh. Damn,” Juliet says. 

“Got that right.” 

The foliage blocks their view as the couple drops to the jungle floor. But they can hear the loud squeals and groans and it's clear enough what they're doing. For some reason, Sawyer and Juliet stand there, listening to the other couple. It tightens something in Sawyer's gut. 

“Matt's married,” Juliet says. 

“They're violatin' the truce.” 

“Not to her,” Juliet adds, finishing her sentence. 

“We're going back.” There's no reason for them to stay and listen to this. They got what they needed and then some. Sawyer turns to head back, and realizes Juliet's not with him. He reaches out and grabs her wrist, pulling her along. Somewhere behind them, Matt and the lunch lady reach their noisy conclusion. Juliet's steps falter and she starts to turn back for some reason just as Sawyer decides it's time to move faster, yanking a little too hard on her wrist. 

“Ow,” she howls. 

He freezes, fear and dread washing over him. He looks back at her, expecting to see her with a gun to her head or shot through with a flaming arrow. 

She's clutching her shoulder, bent forward, her face twisted with pain. He goes back to her, touches her gently and feels her stiffen. Her eyes are blazing as she looks up at him. “You pulled my shoulder out.” She's breathing hard and her face is white. She moves her arm again. “Ow, fuck.” 

His mouth is dry and his heart is in his throat. He hurt her. 

And she's making a ton of noise and they're on the wrong side of the fence. They can't stay here. Getting caught by their boss and his lady friend is the least of their worries. 

“Help me pop it back in,” she says. 

“You gonna scream when I do?” 

“Probably, yeah.” 

“Then we gotta wait till we're back on our side of the fence,” he says. He wants to say he's sorry a thousand times, but they've got more pressing concerns. 

She screws up her face, but she nods and starts moving. He stays behind her to cover her. It seems like it takes forever, but they finally make it to the fence. He keys in the code and they slip through. 

“Now will you help me,” she demands. Her eyes are narrowed and her lips are pale. There's pain in every line of her expression.

“We can go to the infirmary,” he says. Panic is flowing through him, because he hurt her. 

She holds out her injured arm with some effort. “This isn't the first time. Just take my hand, pull, and then push it back in.” 

Reluctantly he takes her hand. He meets her eyes, almost asking for permission. Then she closes her eyes and he takes that as his cue. He tugs on her arm and she whimpers. He wants to stop, but knows he can't. So he pushes, hard, and feels the joint slide back into place. It turns his stomach.

She sighs with relief. She opens her eyes and looks up at him. “It was an accident,” she says. “Bad luck. You went one way, I went the other.” 

He lightly runs his fingers over her shoulder, then looks at her again. He's bigger than her, and stronger. He needed to be careful. He looks at how thin and delicate her wrists are. Self-loathing flows through him, settling heavily in his chest. “I hurt you.” 

“It's a trick shoulder at this point,” she says, like it doesn't matter. “Don't worry about it.” 

“We're still going to the infirmary,” he says. 

“It's fine,” she insists. 

“It's our cover story,” he informs her, and she's quiet. They walk back, both of them breathing hard. He looks at her. She's holding her arm still, but the color's come back into her face. “You want to tell me about it?” 

“The first time, Rachel and I were fighting. She was always way too rough.” 

“Who's Rachel?” he asks, hesitantly. It sounds like someone she was very close to, and he's curious, but he's also strangely afraid. She had a whole life before she came here that he knows almost nothing about.

“My sister,” she says, like it's obvious or he should have known. “She's older.” 

“You're the baby,” he teases. 

“Not like that,” she says, rolling her eyes. “She got in so much trouble. So much trouble. My dad was pissed. We went to the hospital, the whole thing.” She lapses into silence, and he knows she's thinking about it. Reliving the memories in her head. “Then they fought about it that night.” She glances at him and answers his next question before he can answer it. “My parents. It wasn't the first fight, but... it was the first one that was my fault.” 

“How's that your fault?” 

“My stupid shoulder,” she says. He watches her shut down, pushing the memories away, making it so it doesn't matter to her now, in this moment. “It was a long time ago.” She shrugs and winces a little. “It's been dislocated three times since then. Four, now. This is number five. All the result of doing stupid things.” 

“Like what?” he asks. Conversationally. 

“Rock climbing.” 

“You rock climb?” 

“Not anymore,” she replies swiftly. There's a long pause. “Ben, one time.” 

“He hurt you?” Sawyer feels a flare of anger. He's heard her talk about Ben keeping her on the island, and how she felt like a prisoner. He'd never considered that the little hatch monkey might have laid hands on her. 

“Not on purpose. I mean, not that time.” 

Sawyer draws a shallow breath. Wets his lips. He's almost afraid to say it, but he has to. “I think I saw him today.” 

She inhales sharply. “I hadn't thought of that. He always said he was born on the island. Damn it.” 

“He's maybe ten. Can't hurt anyone right now.” Except busting up his dad's knuckles with his face. He sighs. “What was the other time?” 

“Hm? Oh. It was a couple of months ago, in the jungle.” 

He can tell there's more to that story, but he lets her not tell it. They've reached the compound. She turns toward the motor pool building, but he gently steers her toward the infirmary. For the second time that day, he sits in one of the chairs, waiting. It seems like it takes forever, and they don't have any magazines. 

Finally, she emerges. Her arm is in a sling. He feels like a villain. “They gave me an x-ray,” she reports. “And this sling. And painkillers.” She produces a small orange bottle out of the sling. 

“Oh, the good stuff,” he says, checking the label and putting it into his pocket. 

“My head feels kind of weird,” she agrees, a little bit of a frown crossing her face. “I don't like it.” 

He guides her back to the motor pool. Matt has returned from his afternoon delight, and Sawyer finds it difficult to look him in the eye. “Where have you two been?” Matt demands. 

“Infirmary,” Sawyer says. “Juliet here hurt her shoulder.” He watches Matt take in the sling. “They got her on some meds. I think it's best if she'd not around heavy machinery today.” 

“Take her home,” Matt agrees. “But be careful. It's a workshop, not a playground.” 

Sawyer looks at him, determining that he has no idea what really went on that afternoon. Then he nods, even gives him a big smile. “See ya tomorrow, boss.” 

“I'm fine. It doesn't hurt at all,” Juliet says, and stumbles against him. He puts his hand around her waist to try to steady her. Gently. The word echoes through his head, repeating with every step. Reminding himself. 

It's a long walk back to their house with her leaning against him. She looks up at him, and her eyes are kind of dopey. She smiles like she likes him, and it does something to him. He looks down and watches their feet. 

He takes her to her room and sits her on the bed. Then he bends down to unlace her boots to pull them off. When it's done, he stands up. He's not doing anything about the jumpsuit. “Sleep it off,” he says. 

She starts to lay down, but then sits up again. “We have to tell Miles about his lunch lady.” 

“My what?” Miles appears in the doorway, having just gotten home from work. He takes in the scene, then looks at Sawyer. “What'd you do to her?” 

“Minor mishap,” Sawyer says. He puts his fingertips very lightly on her good shoulder and pushes her back down. 

Her eyes start to close like a doll's, and she stops fighting it. She curls up on her uninjured side, falling asleep. Her lips part slightly and her face relaxes. 

Sawyer puts a finger to his lips and moves into the hallway with Miles. 

“I can't believe you hurt Juliet,” Miles says. 

“It was an accident!” Sawyer cries. “Her shoulder popped out.” 

“Oh, yeah, she told me it does that,” Miles replies. Sawyer wonders when this happened. “I could go for some of whatever they gave her.” 

“Knock yourself out.” Sawyer produces the bottle. 

“What was she talking about, my lunch lady?” Miles asks. 

“Oh. About that,” Sawyer says. “Your friend. From the cafeteria.” Miles looks blank. “With the garlic bread?” He sees recognition. He feels bad for what he has to say next. “She's – taken.” 

“I know. She told me,” Miles says. “How'd you find out?” 

“We were... spyin' on the boss, and we saw.” 

“Saw,” Miles repeats, and then he understands. “Let me get this straight. You followed your boss, watched him do a little jungle lovin', broke Juliet, and you still haven't put the moves on her.” 

“I didn't break her.” He scowls. “She's fine.” 

“She's drugged!” 

“And I ain't puttin' the moves on her.” 

“I noticed. Why not?” 

“It ain't like that.” 

“She's hot for you, too,” Miles says. “Go ask her.” 

“She'd probably tell me she's hot for Oscar the Grouch right now if I asked her.” 

“So that's who you remind me of,” Miles quips. He raises a hand and makes a circle with it in the air. “It's the eyebrows.” Sawyer glares his hardest, and Miles laughs. “See you at dinner.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Juliet wakes up, she can't decide which hurts more – her head or her shoulder. Her mouth is dry and there's a terrible taste in it. Her arm is strapped against her chest, and she's still wearing her jumpsuit from work. The sun is up. 

“How ya feelin'?” 

James is sitting in a chair a couple of inches from her bed, leaning forward, with his hands between his thighs. He's watching her. She sees guilt written all over his face and kind of understands. 

Flexing her shoulder makes her wince. 

“Brought you some ibuprofen.” He sets out a small bottle, and a tall glass of water. She reaches for it, but she can't open a bottle one-handed. She starts to try to struggle out of the sling, but he takes the bottle back and shakes out two pills. She raises an eyebrow at him and he shakes out two more. His hand covers hers, making the transfer, and she puts all four in her mouth and knocks them back. “Sayonara to your liver,” he says. 

“Don't need it,” she says, and quickly drinks the rest of the water in the rest of the glass. “Help me get this thing off.” She plucks ineffectually at the straps on the sling. 

“You need that,” he says. 

“No. I don't,” she informs him. “Just like I don't need their pain medicine and I didn't need to go to the infirmary.” It's not a big deal. She doesn't understand why he's insisting on making it into one.

He narrows his eyes at her, but he unstraps the sling for her with careful hands. She closes her eyes for a second when she moves her arm, because it hurts. She doesn't remember it hurting this much the last couple of times. When she opens her eyes again, she sees how intently James is watching her. She thinks about how the water in the glass he brought her was warm. He's been sitting there a long time, waiting for her to wake up. 

“You don't have to feel guilty.”

His looks away, and she wonders for a minute if she's misinterpreted all of this. If it wasn't guilt, but instead really a sweet gesture, that he actually cares about her. 

She can't start thinking about that now. She slides to the end of the bed and gets to her feet. All she wants is a shower and to brush her teeth, and then she has laundry to do. “It's Saturday,” she says. “You could have slept in.” 

“Yeah, well, I got stuff to do,” he says, shifting in the chair. His eyes graze over her body and then search her face. He slinks out of the room, tugging the door shut behind him. 

She looks at small desk that serves as a bedside table, cataloging the items. He's left his book behind. She doesn't see the orange bottle with the painkillers she was given last night. Her eyebrows draw together. Then the fuzz on her teeth registers again and she grabs her things and goes into the bathroom. 

When she emerges, no one is home. She kind of likes that they've all abandoned her, but at the same time, she wonders where they went. Her shoulder's still sore, but she feels human. She drinks another glass of water, feeling dehydrated from their adventure in the jungle and the medication. 

She can't figure out why he took the pill bottle. She considers that he thinks he might be protecting her, but it doesn't feel right, given how bad she knows he feels about causing her pain. She also has to consider whether he wants them for himself. But she's watched him struggle with feeling like there's nothing here for him to control or manipulate. Getting high would be the ultimate loss of control. It's not really his style.

She knows that back at the beach, he had a stash of things he'd taken from the wreckage and the other survivors. It was sort of legendary. Jack told her about it with equal parts irritation and awe. Her stomach quivers as she wonders if he's got a suitcase under his bed here with things he's squirreled away. But the more she thinks about it, the more she has to know. 

For as many times lately as he's been in her bedroom, she hasn't ventured at all into the room he shares with Chad. She stands at the doorway, trying to get her breath. Even if she didn't know that his bed was the far one, the one that's on the other side of drywall from hers, she would be able to tell just by looking. Chad has stuff. Posters and pictures and a ukulele and a flower lei. James's side of the room is spare. He made his bed, but not very neatly. A corner of a sheet hangs down outside of the light blanket. 

She's suddenly very aware that she could lie down and wrap herself up and it would smell like him. That leads to thoughts of lying there with him, wrapped up in his arms.

Pushing the thoughts away, she drops to her knees and stretches a hand under the bed. She touches something, but it's not a suitcase. She tugs up the sheet that's blocking her view and puts her head down. It's a towel. She thinks about leaving it there, but she also thinks about mildew, and it feels both intentionally folded and lumpy, so she pulls it out. It's been folded, so she unfolds it. 

Nestled inside are two tiny bottles of booze, a couple of wrinkled up magazines, a plaid shirt she recognizes, Stephen King's Carrie, the security reports they were using to teach Jin to write, and her orange pill bottle. 

His new stash. 

She sits back, looking at it, feeling horrified. 

He doesn't feel safe here, that's what this is telling her. It's not in a drawer. He's got it hidden, and bundled up so he can run if he has to. Why would he have to, and where would he go? She knows that it's not rational on his part. She knows that kids who have been in foster care tend to hoard things, that it's a habit they can't shake. 

Her heart is breaking for him. 

Her hands tremble and her heart is racing, because he can't know that she knows. She folds the towel back the way it had been and slides it back under the bed. She fiddles with the sheets to get them how they were, and then she races out of his room, terrified he's going to come back any second and catch her. 

She's barely made it back into her own bedroom when he appears in her doorway. “Forgot my --” he pauses when he sees her, then resumes after a beat, “-- book.” It's still lying on her desk. But he doesn't reach for it. He's looking at her. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” she says, and frowns a little. “I just, it's weird, I can't find where I left my prescription from yesterday.” She's totally faking, and she's so nervous she's not sure it's a convincing performance. 

His eyes soften. “You need 'em?” 

“No,” she says. “I mean, not right now. I hate what they do to my head. But you never know.” Very deliberately, she turns to bundle up her laundry. He takes his book with him and she hears him walk away. Her heart is still racing. She's still thinking she's going to get caught. She takes a deep breath and forces herself to steady her hands. 

“You need help with that?” He's back, watching her pick up the bundle of clothes and sheets. 

“I can manage,” she says. 

He sets the pill bottle on her table. “Must've put it my pocket and forgot about it in all the excitement.” 

She looks at him, hoping she's doing a good job of hiding everything she's feeling. He hangs his head and knows he's still feeling guilty. It makes a good distraction, so she lets him. She slips the bottle into the top drawer of her dresser, knowing it'll still be there when she gets back. “See you later, James,” she says, awkwardly holding her laundry bundle and starting for the door. She feels him watching her go.

When she gets back from the laundry, her roommate is in their room. “Hey, Shirley,” Juliet says. 

“Hi,” Shirley says, but she has a weird look on her face and seems uncomfortable. 

Juliet tries to ignore it, and starts putting the sheets back on her bed. After a moment, she looks at Shirley, who is watching her. 

“How's your shoulder? I heard you hurt it,” Shirley says. 

“It's fine,” Juliet says. “Something you wanted?” 

Shirley flips her butt-length, straight blond hair back behind her shoulder. “Don't take this the wrong way, but... you guys are weird.” 

Juliet stops, holding the sheet, and gives her a look. Is there a not-wrong way to take that? 

“I mean, take that guy Miles.” 

“What about him?” 

“He told me that if I didn't stop playing 'Waterloo' over and over, he was going to break the record. Who doesn't like Abba?” 

“Hmmm.” Juliet waits for more, because she's knows there's more. Shirley hasn't said more than a couple of words to her since they started sharing a room. She's just getting started. 

“And then, when I switched to Mama Cass, he told me she's going to choke to death on a ham sandwich. Like, I know she's fat, but that doesn't mean she can't sing.” 

“Lots of people don't like pop music,” Juliet offers neutrally. She's looking at Shirley and thinking she's so young. Maybe twenty-two. 

“And I'm sorry, but the thing with the boat captain is weird.” 

It takes her a moment to process that the boat captain is James. 

“Him watching you sleep is weird. That's creepy. He's a weirdo. I don't want him coming in my room anymore. Our room.” Shirley's gotten vehement, and now she backtracks a little. “I mean, you probably have some kinda past. And he's hot, so if you don't want him, I'm sure you can find someone to take him off your hands. Even if he is in the rec room throwing books around right now.” 

“He's what?” Juliet asks, startled. 

Her roommate picks up her nail file and starts to work on her nails. “Like I said, weird.” 

Juliet drops her sheet onto her bed and very calmly heads for the door. She makes herself not run on the way to the rec room, wondering what's happened now. Wondering if it's her fault. 

The rec room is strangely empty for a weekend. It's eerily quiet. She stops in the doorway, wondering if Shirley was confused, or mistaken. But then she hears a scuffling noise and when she takes another step inside, she can see James sitting on the the floor by the bookshelves, surrounded by books. 

Juliet takes another step, making this one audible. His head turns and he sighs when he sees her, his shoulders sagging. She thinks about turning around and walking right back out, but she can't shake the thought that she's somehow responsible for this. “Where is everyone?” 

“Volleyball tournament.” 

“I forgot about that,” she says. She moves closer, looking at the books scattered at her feet. “What's all this?” 

“Dewey Decimal system,” he says. She raises an eyebrow. “Tired of never bein' able to find anything.” 

“So you're implementing the decimal system? Impressive.” 

“More like the alphabet,” he says. “But there's a lot more books than I realized.” He looks up at her. “Wanna help?” 

“If only I knew the alphabet,” she says, and sits down beside him. 

“There's a song. I c'n teach ya.” He grins, and she finds herself smiling back. His grin does things to her. 

“Author's name?” she asks, about their sorting plan, and he agrees. She starts making piles, one for A through M and one for N through Z. 

James starts pulling the rest of the books off the shelves. He drops a few accidentally and she dodges them, and he looks guilty. “How'd you find me?” he asks. 

She thinks about lying. “Shirley told me you were in here throwing books around.” 

“An' you just had to come save everyone from the big bad book man.” 

She doesn't know what to say. “I don't think you're bad,” she says, finally. Softly. 

The anger on his face starts to fade. It's like the clouds breaking to let in some sun on a rainy day. He looks almost hopeful. She's holding her breath, waiting. She wants him to ask her what she does think of him. Maybe she can try to tell him how she feels. But then anger locks down his expression again and he turns away. 

She lets out the breath. 

A couple more books hit the floor. She scrambles to put them onto their piles. She's thinking about the other thing Shirley said, that someone will take him off her hands. She's not sure why it hasn't happened already. 

She's going to have to be ready when it does. 

Maybe it'll be a relief, she tells herself. She can stop all this thinking and wishing and trailing after him. She can move on. 

She doesn't want to move on. 

He sighs noisily and she looks up. He's surveying the piles of books. “It's a bigger mess than it was.” 

“Things always get worse before they get better,” she says. 

“You turnin' optimist on me?” 

“All we have to do is sort the two big piles into smaller ones, alphabetize those, and put them back on the shelves.” 

“Oh, is that all,” he says. He sits down next to her and reaches for the N through Z pile. 

“Help me with these, it'll go faster.” She scoots over so he has access to the A through M pile. She starts a stack for each letter. 

“You done this before,” he says. She looks at him. “You didn't just come up with this system on the fly.” 

She looks at him and gives him her half-smile. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid.” 

“Lemme guess, you also had a lot of books when you were a kid.” 

“Got it in one,” she says. 

He holds up a book and she puts it into the right pile. “Your daddy was in the military?” 

“That's what everyone always thinks,” she says, shaking her head. “I think my dad was restless.” 

“And your mama?” 

Juliet looks down at the book she's holding. “No,” she says. “It didn't work out for them, in the end.” She looks at him, and thinks of the stash of things he's got hidden under his bed. The tragedy of her parents' divorce doesn't really compare to the tragedy in his own life. Which she knows about, though he's never told her. She doesn't really want him to tell her now, either. “Have you read this?” She holds up the nearest book in a desperate attempt to change the subject. 

“The Art of French Cooking,” he reads off the cover. “Can't say I've had the pleasure. Used to watch her show, though.” 

“You watched Julia Child?” The book goes on the C pile. 

“We only got two channels,” he says. Then he gives her a wicked grin. “Nothin' hotter than a six foot woman in an apron makin' dinner for her man.” 

“She used to be a spy,” Juliet points out.

“That's hot, too,” he says. 

“You have some strange types,” she says. 

“I just like women,” he says, with gusto, still flashing those dimples at her. “Especially when they smell nice.” 

“They do say the scent of vanilla is an aphrodisiac,” Juliet says. 

“Like you've got room to talk, Miss Exxon,” he says, and she feels her face start to get hot. “Clearly you never siphoned gas out of a tank before.” 

“First time for everything.” 

“I been dabbin' some on my pulse points for weeks and you never even noticed.” He fake-pouts at her. 

She puts a book into his hands and he acts like she hit him with it. “Wrong pile.” 

“Don't you wanna take a sniff?” he invites. He's still teasing her. When she just looks at him, he drops the act and says, “Tough customer.” 

She keeps sorting the books, but in her head she's thinking about the missed opportunity. She could have taken him up on it. Crawled over there, put her hands on his chest, and nuzzled her nose into his neck just behind his ear. Even though she knows he was just playing with her. He would have smelled like cologne, or aftershave, or dirty sweaty hair. She thinks about licking his skin there, how soft and vulnerable it looks. How he tastes. 

What would he have done if she did? 

He'd have put his hands on her wrists and kissed her. She knows this as surely as she knows anything. 

She closes her eyes to try to block out the longing before he somehow senses it rolling off of her in waves. 

“Take it easy,” he says. “You're still on the bench.” 

She looks at him and realizes he thinks she hurt her arm again. He's looking all wild and concerned. “I'm fine,” she says. She picks up an oversized book from the pile and opens it. “Know what else I always loved the smell of?” 

“Blueberry pie,” he suggests. 

It's so off the wall she has to laugh. 

“I know you're gonna say books. But let me save you the trouble.” He flips the one in her hand closed. “These just smell like allergies – nothin' but dust and mold.” He looks at it and puts it on the right pile. 

“I do like blueberry pie,” she says. 

“Not as much as you like chocolate ice cream.” 

She smiles, thinking about sharing that ice cream with him in the middle of the night. “Miles told Shirley that Mama Cass chokes to death on a ham sandwich.” 

He chuckles, then says, “Who the hell is Shirley?” 

“My roommate.” 

“Oh, Barbie,” he says dismissively. “Besides, that's an urban legend.” 

“That Barbie's my roommate? I have proof.” 

“The ham sandwich,” he clarifies. “She had a heart attack.” 

“I wonder when that is,” Juliet says. He shrugs. “I'm waiting for you to say she's hot.” 

“She's a woman, ain't she?” He gives her a slow grin. “You eat all the chocolate ice cream you want, Klondike, you ain't got nothin' to worry about.” 

She rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling. She gets up on her knees to retrieve a couple more books, and then looks over her shoulder at him because she knows he's looking at her ass. He gives her a deliberate look at being caught, staring her down until the air between them turns electric and she has to look away. 

She goes back to sorting the books. “Got a good one for ya,” he says, and slides one over to her. 

It's Wheelock's Latin. She raises an eyebrow and pushes it back. “Next.” 

He holds up another one. “Musical.” 

“And you thought Centennial was long,” she says, taking it and putting it on the H pile. 

He holds up another one. He's taking them from the N-Z pile. “What light through yonder window breaks,” he quotes. 

“Original. Never heard that one before,” she says, deadpan. 

“Not even impressed I'm quotin' Shakespeare at ya?” He tosses it over his shoulder. 

“I'm not the least bit surprised you can quote Shakespeare, James,” she says. 

“Why'd they name you Juliet, Juliet?” he asks. 

“Why'd they name you James, James?” she replies. 

“Why do people name their kids anything.” He sighs. 

“It'd be confusing if they didn't.” 

“Funny,” he says. 

“I think they just liked it,” she says, answering his previous question. “I'm not really named after the play. Not that it matters.” 

“Why do you call me James?” he asks. His voice is low and his expression is serious. He's looking intently at her face. 

“It's your name,” she says. 

“Ain't been my name for a long time.” 

“And yet here you are, James LaFleur,” she points out. “They're like characters you play.” 

“I'm not acting.” He's starting to sound angry. 

“You're not Sawyer. Not here, not anymore,” she says. 

“Who decided that, you?” 

“Apparently,” she says, and looks at the sea of books surrounding them. She's thinking that she wasn't the only one who called him James – it was Locke, and then Kate, too. The ones who saw him most clearly. She wonders, not for the first time, what he's so afraid of. She says, de-escalating things, “I guess we were never properly introduced.” 

“You were too busy kickin' my ass.” His glare is starting to fade.

“It got your attention, anyway.” She thinks about the first time she saw him. The way he looked her up and down. Ben telling her they had other plans for him. It wasn't very long ago. 

“Guess I like girls who kick my ass,” he says. 

She doesn't even take him to task for 'girls'. She's feeling ashamed for all the things that happened to him and her part in it. But she can't find the words to say it, or explain it. She suspects he knows exactly how that feels. 

“What would you like me to call you?” she asks, and it's genuine. 

“It don't matter,” he says. She opens her mouth to say his name, as she's in the habit of doing when she wants to call him out on his bullshit. But she stops. “Guess I got used to it, comin' out of your mouth.” He sighs. “An' since I ain't going by Sawyer here...” 

“It could be a pet name,” she offers. He looks at her. “People seem to think we're together.” 

“Yeah, I noticed,” he says. 

She realizes that wasn't exactly the response she wanted. She looks back down at the books. She's got the first half sorted into piles, now she just has to sort each pile alphabetically. Standing the A books up so they're spine out, she starts shifting them, one by one, putting them into place. 

“I'm sorry I kicked your ass on Hydra Island,” she says softly. 

“You saved my life,” he says. “Even though it wasn't worth savin'.” 

“I've got your back,” she says. She's telling him that his life was worth saving. That he is worth saving. Even though she can't say the words so plainly. She meets his gaze. He nods, and doesn't look away. She wants to take his hand as the moment stretches between them. She looks down at it, then back to his face. He looks a little curious, and she thinks she's given herself away. 

“Juliet,” he says, in a soft, uncertain tone. 

It's the way she imagines he might say her name before he decides to kiss her. A fluttery little panic erupts inside of her. She doesn't know what he's going to say next. Or do next. “These are ready for the shelf,” she forces herself to say, like that didn't just happen, and she puts the first bunch of A books into his hands. She feels him looking at her, but she starts in on the B books. After a long moment, he gets to his feet to put the books on the highest shelf. 

When she's sure the moment's gone, she looks up at him again. With his hands up on the shelf, his shirt rides up. He's wearing loose jeans that ride low on his narrow hips. She looks for a long time at that exposed strip of tan skin of his belly. 

He finishes arranging the As and she hands up the Bs, feeling a twinge in her shoulder as she does it. 

“We've all done things here to be forgiven for,” he says, voice half-swallowed by the empty shelf he's facing. “We survived.” 

She doesn't say anything. She knows he's spent half his life seeking revenge. That's not the kind of man who forgives. But he's also not Sawyer any more. Not to her. 

“How did this all get started anyway,” she says. 

“Once upon a time,” he says. 

“I mean, the books. This.” She gestures to the piles surrounding them. 

“I was tryin'a find a book.” 

“A specific book?” she asks. He doesn't say, but she knows it must be so. She wants to know which one, and why. 

“Maybe I was lookin' up Shakespeare quotes to annoy you with later,” he says. 

She doesn't believe him. “Did it work?” she asks, straight-faced, and is graced with a puff of laughter from him. 

She picks up the Ds, of which there are many, because of Dickens. She puts them in his hands and he dumps them on the shelf. Our Mutual Friend skitters to the floor. He takes her hand and holds it before she can reach for the book. “Why're you doin' this, Juliet?” 

He's holding her hand. She doesn't understand why. “I --” She looks down at his hand wrapped around hers. It's hot and dry and strong. She turns her face back up to his. “I wanted to help?” She looks down again. “And spend time with you.” It feels like a huge admission.

He moves his thumb, stroking her skin. Her heart is pounding so badly in her chest she feels like it's causing her whole body to shake. “Why?” He tips his head, still looking at her.

His eyes are so clear, she has to remind herself they are both manipulators. She wants to snap at him and run away, out of self protection. She wants him so badly, but it scares her so much. She doesn't pull away. She stays there, with him holding her hand, for another long moment. She doesn't know what to say. She doesn't know the answer. So she looks away. 

That's all it takes. His hand releases hers so he can pick up Our Mutual Friend and slot it onto the shelf with the other Dickens novels.

They shelve some more books. “I was lookin' for A Wrinkle In Time,” he says, after awhile. “You read it?” 

“A long time ago,” she says. She waits for the rest. 

“That kid was here. I thought maybe it'd help him. Meg Murry, thinkin' she's a monster. Knowing what he's going to grow up to be.” He purses his lips. “But you can't change what happens, right?” 

“Maybe the book is what turned him into Ben,” she says. “Our Ben.” 

“Then it's a good thing I couldn't find it.” He shelves the next batch of books. 

“You know these are all just going to get mixed up again,” she says. 

“Buncha do-gooders like the Dharma Initiative? Once everything's sorted, they'll keep it in order,” he says. “You wait 'n see.” 

“I wouldn't take that bet.” 

“I'm an optimist,” he grins. “Maybe Horace'll make me staff librarian.” 

“You would die of boredom,” she says. 

“You know me so well,” he teases, his voice full of honey. “A little boredom's not such a bad thing, sweetness.” 

“You know the nicknames and the charm don't work on me, right?” she says, and it comes out a little sharp and she instantly regrets it. 

But he takes it right in stride. “Maybe that's why I like you,” he says, and gives her another one of those heated looks. 

She wants to say something honest in return, say she likes him too, but she can't make the words come out. She doesn't want to get rejected, because he's just playing here. She knows that with him flirting is like breathing and he doesn't mean a word of it. That's why the charm doesn't work on her. 

“Little faster,” he prompts, maybe in response to her refusal to engage. “Got a lot of empty shelves, and a lot of books on the floor, sparky. Daylight's burning.” 

She sorts the next batch and hands them up, then rushes through the next. Nice while it lasted, she thinks, now back to business. He wants to be done with her. 

They make quick work of the rest, in silence. After she hands him the last set of books, he holds out his hand to help her up from the floor. She takes it and feels how gentle and delicate he is with her now. Her shoulder is starting to ache, those four ibuprofen having worn off hours ago. She stands next to him and surveys their handiwork. It's satisfying, all the books in neat, ordered rows. 

“All that and I still got time to take me a little nap and work on my tan,” he says.

Her hands suddenly feel grimy from handling all the old books. She wipes them on her pants. “I think I need a shower. And some lunch.” 

“Priorities,” he says. He gives her a long look. “Thanks for the afternoon, Blondie.” 

“Any time, James,” she says, looking back at him. She nods, and he walks out of the rec room. She takes a deep breath, surveys the tidy shelves one more time, then follows him out. By the time she reaches the house, he's pulled off his shirt and parked himself in one of the lawn chairs outside their house, long legs stretched out in front of him. She's giving his chest an admiring look when he opens his eyes and catches her. 

He grins devilishly, then closes his eyes and soaks up the sun, still smiling like the Cheshire Cat.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

“You guys spent the whole afternoon together and you still didn't make a move?” Miles is incredulous when he stops to talk to Sawyer on the porch. 

“I'm feelin' like you might be a little overinvested in this,” Sawyer says. 

“Did anything happen?” Miles asks. 

“No,” Sawyer admits. 

“You need to get it done, bozo,” Miles says. “What'd it take for you to get with Kate?” 

“That was different.” 

“How?” Miles widens his eyes, waiting for an answer. 

Sawyer scowls. It was all different. He'd been pursuing her, hard. They'd already kissed. He knew she wanted it. Him. “She thought I was gonna die. We both thought I was gonna die.” 

“I'll shoot you,” Miles offers, like he means it. But then he relents, with a sigh. “You know what you learn, talking to ghosts? People who die have a lot of regrets. All those regrets are things they didn't do. Are you going to regret this?” 

“She don't like me, Miles. Not like that.” 

Miles makes a frustrated noise. “Hours. Talking,” he says. “I always spend hours talking to people I don't like. This conversation, for instance.” 

“You're makin' my point here, hoss.” 

“You're hopeless,” Miles declares. “Maybe I need to talk to her.” 

“Don't,” Sawyer warns. Miles gives him a look like he's entertained by the idea of playing Cupid, and Sawyer makes a grab for him and misses when Miles quickly sidesteps. Then he's gone. 

From around the corner, he hears Miles's voice. “Hey, Juliet.” 

“Son of a bitch,” Sawyer mutters. He thinks about going to break it up, but that would be suspicious and probably drive Miles to blow his cover and spill everything he knows. Which Miles will probably do anyway. The guy's not exactly subtle. Sawyer decides not to listen to this train wreck and goes stomping into the house. 

Jin's sitting at the kitchen table, his permanent spot these days. He's got security paperwork spread out in front of him. Barbie's at the other end of the table, painting her nails. When Sawyer drops into one of the chairs, she looks at him with something like disgust and moves into the living room. 

“Am I interruptin' something?” Sawyer asks Jin. 

“No,” Jin says, smiling. At least somebody's glad to see him. 

“You're workin' too hard, Jin-bo,” Sawyer says. “This is a day that needs more beer in it.” He goes to the fridge and pulls out a couple of cold ones. He cracks them open and gives one to Jin, holding his out to clink with. “Cheers,” he says. 

“Cheers,” Jin echoes. 

“That's called a toast,” Sawyer says. “Toast,” he repeats, slower, holding up his bottle. 

Jin nods. “Toast.” Then he frowns, and makes a motion like buttering bread. “Toast?” 

“Right, different kinda toast,” Sawyer says. “You're catchin' on quick there.” He pulls the security paperwork in front of him and gives it a glance. He still doesn't see the point of it, and passes it back. He takes a long drink of his beer and feels himself relaxing. His head's not quite so busy. 

“You miss her, don't you?” he asks his friend. “Sun.” 

Jin nods. 

“Tell me about her,” Sawyer invites. Jin looks hesitant. Sawyer waves a hand. “Use Korean if you want. It ain't a school day.” He wonders what the Korean word for Korean is. Maybe he could put in an order for a dictionary and get it on the next sub. Why should Jin do all the work. 

He listens to the tone of Jin's voice more than anything, and watches his face. Jin throws in an English word here and there, ones he knows, like “dog,” and “fish.” He gets more wistful around the time he gets to “ring,” and “love.” 

Sawyer wishes Jin was the one giving him advice instead of Miles. Even if, thinking back to the days right after the crash, it was obvious Sun and Jin weren't doing all that well, couple-wise. The island changed Jin. Changed him a lot. More than any of the rest of 'em, really. 

And now she's gone. 

He finishes up his beer, and suddenly the room and even the whole house feel too small. He needs fresh air, and maybe some alone time to do the kind of thinking he can't do indoors. If it was the old days, back on the beach, he would go chop some firewood. “Thanks,” he says to Jin. 

Jin looks confused, but says, “You're welcome.” 

Sawyer steps outside and takes a deep breath, standing on the porch. He looks up at the perfect, cloudless blue sky. As he's standing there, trying to figure out which way to go, voices filter over the distance to him. 

Miles and Juliet. Talking low. 

He should just keep walking, but he stands still. Holding his breath. Listening hard. 

“Just a distraction,” he hears Juliet say. Then Miles says something he can't make out, and Juliet's voice rises a bit, and he clearly hears her say, “Rebound from Kate.” 

His first instinct is to go over there and confront them both, and his second is to run. His ears and face burn hot with shame so he walks in the other direction. When he gets to the tree line, he stops and lets anger overwhelm him. He punches a palm tree with his fist, then kicks it and shoves it and punches it some more, grunting as he does it. It's only when the tree splinters and sags sideways to the ground that he stops. 

His hands hurt. He's still feeling panic flowing through him, stronger now that the anger's fading. Beating up a tree's a stupid thing to do, but he had to do something to get it all out of him. He can't keep turning it inward anymore. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, because he doesn't feel any better. He might even feel worse. But the anger's no good if the fear doesn't go away. 

For a long time in his life, anger was all he felt. 

He takes a deep breath, and then another, and looks down at his hands. He's starting to come back into himself, and lets the pain ground him. 

He asks himself what the fuck he's so afraid of. 

Everything. 

He's afraid of getting angry and screwing things up. He's afraid of not being angry and feeling all these other things churning inside, and then screwing things up. He's afraid of the future, and he's afraid of the past, and right now his future is the past and that just makes things more confusing. 

If he went and hopped on the sub and took out his daddy, or the con man, what kind of life would little Jimmy Ford have? Who would he grow up to be? How the hell would that even work? Some kind of fork in the road, two worlds splitting off? But the words echo in his head: what's done is done. You can't change the past. A tiger can't change his stripes. 

He's got the opportunity here to be different. To start over. Again. The crash was one chance. This is a second. 

Maybe he is on the rebound. Maybe he picked Juliet because she's safe. Like she said, the charm doesn't work on her. She's never going to love him. Maybe that's a lie, too.

He turns around and heads home. They're all in the living room playing backgammon. He wishes he could just watch TV and switch off his thoughts. But there is no TV here. He doesn't stop, doesn't even pause. He goes into his room, alone, and shuts the door. 

…

The knock at his door late that night is so soft and light he thinks for a moment he's imagined it. He's not sleeping, and his roommate never came in. It's Saturday night; Sawyer figures he got the hookup elsewhere. 

He rolls out of bed and opens the door. Juliet stands there with a look of quiet excitement on her face. Her hair is loose and curly and hanging over one shoulder. She's wearing some kind of outfit with little blue flowers printed on it that he gives a second glance to. 

“Come with me,” she says, and whirls around and heads for the door. He grumbles a little and follows her. They walk into the yard and she stops. “Look up.” 

He does, and his mouth opens at what he sees. Stars, more than stars, moving overhead, like fireworks in the darkness. 

“It's a meteor shower.” She gives him the biggest, kookiest, happiest grin and he finds that he's smiling back. They stand there, together, looking up. 

His neck starts to cramp so he finds himself looking at her. She notices and gives him a questioning look. “What's this you're wearing?” he asks. 

“I bought some pjs,” she says. “Like 'em?” 

He feels vaguely disappointed, thinking of her long, bare legs. “They're cute, but what happened to my shirt?” he asks, meaning it to be teasing. 

“Did I actually just hear you use the word cute?” Her eyes are shining and he doesn't think he's ever seen her seem this happy. She reaches for his forehead, feeling like she thinks he's got a temperature. “Are you feeling all right?” 

“Hey,” he says, and ducks back, catching her hand to push it away. 

“What did you do to your hand?” she asks, holding it and looking at his banged-up knuckles. She captures his other hand, too, and frowns down at it, then looks into his eyes. “Did you get into a fight?”

“I got pissed off and beat up a tree,” he admits in a low voice. 

“Did it help?” Her tone is soft and neutral. 

He sighs as he shrugs. He rubs his lips together. He doesn't really know what to say. “You're happy here,” he says, looking at her. The starlight is practically shining off of her. 

“I guess,” she admits, smiling. She's still holding his hands and looking in his eyes. “I can make this work.” 

For a second, he thinks she's talking about them. Not this place. This time.

“Look. It's okay that the motor pool's not for you. You have options,” she continues. 

“You think this is about work?” He doesn't give a damn about the motor pool, and he's pretty sure she knows it. 

Her lips curl into that half-smile he knows so well. The cynic has new pjs, but she's still in there somewhere. “I knew you'd get bored. You've been through a trauma, James. Ongoing. For months. Going back to something resembling a normal life is going to be an adjustment.” 

“This place ain't normal,” he says. 

“No one's shot at us for at least three weeks,” she says. “Not everything is going to be as exciting. It's no reason to go beating up trees.” She squeezes his hands and then releases them. “Maybe you need a hobby. You could take up yoga.” 

He huffs, something related to a laugh. “Or stargazing.” He's looking at her, not the stars, when he says it. These late nights are starting to feel like magic. She sought him out, came to get him. She wanted to be with him. 

“We can make this work,” she says, watching the sky with wonder. 

“Do you still feel like a prisoner here?” 

She looks at him, thinking about it. “No,” she says, smiling as she realizes it. “I feel kind of free.” 

“I'm --” He stops, shakes his head, and frowns. He thinks about the tree. “I'm not sure I know who I am here.” 

She nods, her face suddenly very serious. Listening. 

“Would you miss me if I left?” He's not sure he knew he was thinking about it until the words come out and become real. What else does he have here, if he doesn't have her? If he's never going to have her.

She looks as surprised as if he had struck her. Instantly she's holding back tears, looking at him like he's done something terrible. His stomach turns over, his chest filling with dread. Yet again, he's screwed up. “I stayed here for you,” she says, and it's an accusation. 

“What?” he says, because he can't quite believe it. 

“You were right,” she says, and her voice is strained. She's upset, and he's not quite sure he understands. “There's nothing for us to go back to. We can make a life here.” She's wrapped her arms around herself. She's not cold. She looks like she's trying to protect herself. 

“Juliet.” He wants to take it all back. He doesn't understand, and he doesn't know what to do. 

She stands there, looking up at the stars streaking across the sky. He puts his hand out to touch her, thinking maybe that could make this right. But she dodges his hand. She takes a step back, away from him. Her eyes meet his for a second, pink around the edges, and she shakes her head and starts for the house. 

“Wait,” he says, standing still, but the door closes behind her. He's still not really sure what just happened. But he wishes he could kick himself, or take it all back. Instead he sits down in the lawn chair and looks up at the sky. 

…

He's the stupidest man she ever met, she thinks angrily as she lies in bed in her cute new pajamas that she bought because of him. 

But it's not that. She's angry with herself, for being so foolish. She talked to Miles, listened to him tell her that James was into her. She listened to him tell her what she wanted to believe, and hearing it from someone else made it so dangerously easy to believe, when none of it is actually true. 

Because there's no possible way that James is so stupid that he wouldn't realize she brought him out there driven by something more than friendship and a desire to look at the stars, though they were breathtaking. 

She'd actually started to feel happy. She'd had a plan that would end with them kissing and him thinking it had been his idea. 

She told him they could build a life here. 

That's what she stayed for. 

But it's not enough for him. 

He doesn't care about her and never did. He asked her to stay and never gave her thoughts or feelings a second thought. He's selfish. Well, she can be selfish too. 

She's done with men she's not good enough for. Her marriage gave her enough of that to last her a lifetime. She's not going back to being the soft little mouse she once was. She's survived the last three years by developing hard edges, by putting her heart inside a cage inside her chest that no one could reach. She can do it again. 

She can pretend it makes her happy working on engines in the motor pool, a job that is very much beneath her but still sort of satisfying at the end of the day, knowing something was broken and now it's fixed. 

In the same way, she can be James's friend. She likes him, she enjoys spending time with him, that's not the hard part. Keeping her heart safe in that cage and pretending she doesn't want more...

She can do it, she decides. She will do it. What choice does she have? 

…

She sleeps late the next morning, and takes a long, luxurious shower. By the time she emerges, it's after noon, she's starving, and there's some kind of ruckus going on in the kitchen. 

James, Miles and Jin are sitting around the table, and they're definitely not studying English. 

“Mornin', sleepyhead,” James says in a sexy, teasing growl. 

“Thought you were gonna sleep all day,” Miles adds. 

Juliet bypasses them and goes into the kitchen and starts opening cabinets. She puts some bread in the toaster. “Do we have any peanut butter?” 

“Fridge,” Jin offers. 

Who the hell keeps peanut butter in the fridge, she thinks, pulling it out. If they had a microwave, she'd chance it, but it's about ten years too early for that. She shoves in a butter knife and tries to stir it around. She can feel James watching her, and realizes what she's doing looks kind of obscene, so she just thrusts the knife in more vigorously. 

“What are you guys doing over there?” she asks as the toast pops up. 

“Playing poker,” Miles says. 

“It's my new hobby,” James adds with relish. 

“Of course it is,” she says, mostly to herself. She did tell him, last night, that he needed a hobby. Too bad that's the only thing she said that he apparently heard. 

But she puts her peanut butter toast on a plate and takes it over to the table and sits down. They've apparently raided the Monopoly set for brightly colored slips of paper, which now litter the center of the table. She's surprised they're not playing for real money.

“Raise.” 

“Call.” 

“Lay 'em down, boys.” The cards slap down, James laughs, and sweeps the kitty over into his pile. Then he gathers up the cards and starts to shuffle, doling them out to Miles and Jin. He skips her in the rotation.

“You're not going to deal me in?” she asks, her mouth sticky. She should have poured herself a glass of milk. 

“Ante up,” he says, widening his eyes at her. He knows she can't. “We're not playin' for toast.” He keeps distributing the cards, and she gives him a look. Then she leans back in her chair to watch and simmer, since they're not going to let her play. 

It's boring. They bet, James bluffs to some degree, he wins, then he deals again. Juliet can't figure out why Miles and Jin put up with it. Maybe they're that hard up for entertainment. 

She finishes her toast. She goes back into the kitchen to have a drink and wash her plate. 

“You leaving us, sugarpop?” James calls. There's a thinly veiled annoyance underneath his words that especially leaks through on the name he chooses to call her. She thinks, Good. She's annoyed too. 

She pauses next to his chair on her way back to her room. She leans in close enough that her hair hanging down brushes against his shoulder. He looks at her. Their eyes meet for a long, heated moment. “Can I give you a tip?” she asks. 

“Can you?” he says, and gives her the full dimple treatment. 

She leans in a little bit. “Your friends might appreciate it if you deal the next one off the top of the deck.” She glances over her shoulder at Miles and Jin, then goes into her room and closes the door. 

Behind her, she hears him laughing and she wants to scream. 

…

She wants to ignore him at work the next day, but it's impossible. He's making such a mess she has to go over there and physically stop him. She puts her hands over his and looks him in the eyes. “Stop,” she says quietly.

He does, but she thinks it's more out of the shock of having her there. He looks down at her hands covering his but doesn't pull away. 

She looks at them, too, his banged-up hands with split skin on the knuckles. She still wonders if she should buy his story about beating up a tree, but she hasn't seen anyone running around looking like they got punched, and it's so ridiculous she has to believe it. 

“Did we have a fight?” he asks her, tipping his head so his hair falls back. 

“Did we?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Feels like we did.” He makes a little face at her. 

She can't deny the underlying tension, and the fact that she's still kind of angry with him, and that she has the impression he's kind of angry with her. What would happen if they actually talked about it, she thinks. But she can't quite make herself. Maybe acknowledging it is enough for them to move on.

“Just... please stop breaking things,” she says, and releases his hands and walks away. 

He follows her. Trailing, like a puppy, at her heels. “Can't help it if the only thing I know about cars is how to sell one.” 

“You said that before,” she says, and in spite of herself, she's intrigued. She puts her hand on the van. “Impress me, then. Sell me this car.” 

“I'm not here to sell you a car,” he says, and then breaks into a grin. “I'm here to help you buy one. The right one. And somethin' tells me that this here vanagon ain't the right one for you.” He takes her hand and tugs her over to one of the bright blue jeeps instead. He looks at her, checking in with her. “Now this, this is the one for you.” 

“Why's that?” she asks. 

He goes over to it and puts his hands on the hood. He looks wild, like a snake oil salesman who's just getting started. “For starters, it's your color. Matches your eyes.” 

“Not quite,” she says, aware that her eyes are not an almost-turquoise shade not found in nature. 

“Second, you can go anywhere in this thing. On road, off road. It's got safety features. It's fun, it's adventurous.” 

She looks back at the van. “Maybe I wanted something with room to stretch out. For camping.” 

“Plenty of room in here. Hop in the backseat.” 

“It doesn't have a roof and it rains every day for at least fifteen minutes,” she says. 

“Tell you what. We go for a test drive,” he says. “Try it out. Give it some speed. See where the road takes you.” He scribbles something on the checkout sheet and tosses her the keys. She catches them easily. But she doesn't move to get in. “What? It's just a little joyride,” he coaxes, and it's the first convincing thing she's heard him say so far, because it's genuine instead of smarmy. 

“We are so getting fired,” she says. But she gets in. The engine comes to life and she listens to it purr. James hops in on the passenger side and gives her a look. She stomps the gas and he gives a little holler, drumming excitedly against the door frame. 

The road ends and they bounce along the path into the valley, making tracks in the lush green foliage. James whoops and puts his hands in the air like he's on a roller coaster. She makes a quick turn like she's in a car commercial and stops. The wind has blown her hair into her mouth but she can't stop smiling. 

“That's more like it,” he says, and looks at her. He reaches over and gently brushes her hair back. Her heart feels like it's swelling up in her chest and for a second she thinks he's feeling it too. But then he says, “So you wanna buy this car?” 

“I don't really need a car right now,” she says. “It's a lot of commitment.” 

“C'mon, it'd be fun,” he says. 

“Why buy what you use get for free?” she asks. Is it really a pretend used car deal they're talking about now? He gives her a wry look and then turns his face away. She looks at him, really looks, studying his profile. The way his nose slants and that firm bit of chin and the barest hint of a crease in his cheek even when he's not smiling. 

He looks at her and catches her staring at him. “Stayin' here, for me, that's not like being a prisoner?” he asks. Serious now.

So he's still thinking about it too., what they said under the star shower. “I stayed for me,” she says, like it should be obvious. 

He blinks at her like he's confused. 

She's not sure she can explain it. Yes, he asked her to stay. But it was her decision. Her own, selfish, decision. To stay with him. 

“You ever read any Steinbeck?” he asks. 

“Mmm.” She's not sure where this is going. “I love The Grapes of Wrath. And East of Eden.” 

“Of Mice and Men?” 

“In high school, sure,” she says. 

“You remember it?” 

“It was awhile ago,” she admits. “You brought me out here for an impromptu book club meeting?” 

He shakes his head. “Never mind.” 

“No,” she says, turning in the driver's seat so she's facing him, to give him her full attention. “You brought it up for some reason.” 

He sighs. “It's about wantin' something you ain't never going to get. And knowing that.” 

She just looks at him. It must be obvious she doesn't understand, because he lets the intensity go and says, “It's about a lot of things.” 

“I'll have to pick it up,” she says, and means it. Even though that's not what matters to him. She's not sure what is. “You can tell me anything, you know,” she says. He glances at her. “I mean it.” 

He's smiling now. “What do you want me to tell you?” His voice is smooth as caramel, teasing her. She leaves it unacknowledged.

“This was a good idea,” she says. “Fun. It's a nice day.” 

“Let me drive it back,” he says, reaching for the keys. 

“We could stay a while longer.” She leans back against the headrest, taking in the view. 

“Thought you didn't want to get fired,” he says. 

“Thought maybe you did,” she shoots back. She pushes open the door and gets out. They trade sides and he hits the gas almost before she has the door closed. “Hey, it's not Mr. Toad's Wild Ride!” 

He looks at her and she kind of wishes he'd keep his eyes on where they're going, instead. 

They're back at the motor pool before she knows it, and pulling in does feel like returning to the station at the end of a theme park ride. A few minutes of fun, slowing to a stop. She watches him cross his name off the checkout sheet and hang the keys back on their peg. It's anticlimactic to come back to work, to be expected to get anything done. 

That's when somebody stops by and says that Horace wants to see James. He nods and says he'll be right there. He pushes back his hair, trying to look more presentable, and catches her eye to check in with her. She smiles, a little thinly, and watches him go. Feeling like the ride really did just end.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hey, Jim, thanks for coming by,” Horace says, as though he hasn't just summoned him. 

“My pleasure, chief,” Sawyer says, and they sit down on opposite sides of Horace's desk. 

“You figure out what's going on at the motor pool yet?” Horace asks. 

Sawyer's a bit surprised he's being so direct. But then he did also call him into his office. Maybe the time for games has ended. “It's Matt,” he says. “Havin' himself a little rendezvous outside the fence.” 

“It's not just Matt,” Horace says. “There's a lot of people doing a lot of things they're not supposed to.” 

“Like goin' outside the fence.” 

“That's Hostile territory out there. Breaking the truce. Even you went.” 

“We were following Matt!” Sawyer protests, feeling a little bit set up. 

“Listen,” Horace says. “We lost Paul.” He takes a deep breath. “We almost lost the truce. Which means we almost lost everything we have here. This has to be stopped. We need somebody who can put some fear back into our people. Fear and control.” Horace is looking at him. 

“Why're you lookin' at me?” Sawyer asks. 

“We gave it a try with our existing staff, putting them into leadership positions, but it just didn't work out. You saw the problem. And I admired how you handled Richard. I've negotiated with him. It's tough.” 

Sawyer inhales, considering. “What're you saying?” he asks. 

“I'm saying you're our new head of Security, LaFleur. It's not going to be easy, but I think you've proven you're up for the challenge.” 

Sawyer doesn't know what to say. He's flattered, of course, and he's not all that surprised. He knew the motor pool was a test. He just didn't know what subject until right now. 

“I've got your handbook here,” Horace says. “And your jumpsuits. Did the last name like you requested.” He looks pleased with himself until he pauses and looks at Sawyer. He must sense his doubts, because he says, “It comes with privileges.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like a house. Of your own. Only one bedroom, but no roommates. Unless you want one.” 

“Hmm.” He's already well aware that this is not a yes or no offer. He doesn't get to turn it down unless he wants to punch his ticket for the sub. 

“How's Juliet, Jim?” Horace asks. It's not a change of subject. 

“I'm sure she's fine,” Sawyer says glibly. “You playin' matchmaker now, too?” 

Horace just smiles. Like he knows something Sawyer doesn't. Sawyer doesn't like that, but he's keeping his expression neutral now. Even if he could turn this offer down, he wouldn't. 

“This is a good place, Jim. Good people. But you – you're going to have to be the iron fist in the velvet glove.” It sounds almost like a threat. Horace puts the handbook and jumpsuits down on the desk close to where Sawyer is sitting. Then he places a key on top. “You'll get started tomorrow morning. Take the night off.” 

Sawyer just nods, and reaches for the stuff. 

“Oh, and your friend Jin? He's coming right along. Nice work.” Horace reaches for a folder on his desk and doesn't look back up. Sawyer knows when he's been dismissed. He gathers up the handbook and uniforms and walks out of his office. 

He didn't really like the way that went down, but he walks back across the village feeling excited. He's starting to formulate plans in his head, how he's going to do these things that Horace has told him he's going to do. How he's going to keep them all safe. And out in the jungle, he can keep looking for any survivors. He'll have a gun, and some power, and never have to wait for Ken and Barbie to finish up in the bathroom again. 

A house. He's never had a house, not all his own. The closest he ever got was that row of tin windows and a tarp on the beach. 

He reaches the motor pool and he's smiling in spite of himself. Matt's not around – surprise – and Juliet looks extra casual, like she's trying to hide the fact that she was waiting for him. She looks at the jumpsuits in his hands and says, “Oh, hey, you finally got them,” with a big grin. 

He watches how her grin fades when she notices they're tan jumpsuits, not dark blue like they wear in the motor pool. “You got reassigned,” she says. 

He holds one up so she can see. “Says it right there. Head of Security.” 

“That's quite a promotion,” she says. 

He grins. “I told you he was testing me.” 

“That's great, James,” she says. “I'm very happy for you.” 

Except, he notices, she doesn't sound that happy. 

“It gets better.” He waits for her to look at him. “It comes with a house. Of my own.” He feels pride swelling in his chest. Like he earned something here. 

“You'll have to show me sometime,” she says, and turns away to start polishing some tool with a rag. 

“What's wrong?” he says. There's no answer for so long he thinks he's going to have to put his hand on her shoulder and turn her around. But then her head drops. 

“I'm going to miss you,” she says, and glances at him quickly. She's trying to smile like she's happy for him, it's just not quite working. 

“What?” He keeps his voice low and smooth, silky, but feels a stab of panic pierce through him. She ain't going nowhere, he tells himself. 

“Not working together anymore. Not living in the same house. I'm never going to see you.” She's shifted her weight and turned her head, so she's looking at him now. 

“Oh, you'll see me,” he promises. 

She raises one shoulder in something like a shrug. “I'm not so sure.” She appraises him with her clear blue eyes.

“You think you can be rid of me that easy?” he asks. “You're my best friend here, Blondie. I'm not letting you go that easy. I still need somebody to watch my back.” 

It crosses his mind that maybe this is the time to say more. Do more. But she was pissed as hell at him yesterday and he doesn't want to face that again. He doesn't want to push her any farther away than she's apparently always feeling. 

“Best friends, huh?” she says, like she's recentering herself. 

“I'll ask Miles how to braid me one of those bracelets.” 

“I'm sure he knows,” she says. 

“C'mon,” he says. “This is a good thing.” 

“I know it is,” she says. “Congratulations.” She smiles, and then she pulls him into a hug. He stands still, the way he always did when Hurley pulled the hug routine on him, but for very different reasons. Hugo was a force of nature; it was like being hugged by a very determined, cuddly tree. Juliet's all softness in his arms and he gets a deep breath full of the scent of her, all fake-apple shampoo and motor oil. His hand finds her back, touching her spine. He doesn't want her to let go. 

But she lets go, of course she does, and she smiles at him with kind of a curious look in her eyes. He looks at her and he hopes like hell it's not a dopey, lovesick kind of look. Until she says, “Not a hugger. I should have known that about you.” 

He wants to protest and ask for a second chance. But he lets her think that she's right. 

“We'll have to celebrate tonight,” she says. 

“What's wrong with right now?” 

“Tonight,” she says, smiling. She puts her hand on his arm, just for a second, against his skin. Then she turns away, to work for real this time, checking the worklist and then reaching for the tools she'll need for the next repair job. 

He sneaks a look back at her, to see if maybe she changed her mind, but she hasn't. So he keeps walking. He tucks the handbook and outfits under his arm and goes to find his house. 

It's centrally located. He puts the key in the lock and goes inside. It smells a little musty and stale. It's fully furnished, with the same kind of 70s dorm room dark wood furniture as the other houses. There's nothing personal around, a bookshelf but no books. 

He wonders if this was Paul's house. Maybe it's the head of security's house, whoever that happens to be at the time. 

If it was Paul's house, did they kick out Amy so he could live here? He hopes not, and figures if they did, he'll know it soon enough by the dirty looks in the cafeteria and the latest rumors on the coconut internet. 

He walks into the kitchen and turns around. He's thinking about the cafeteria and about cooking meals here instead. They have a kitchen in their dorm-house but only use it for snacks. If he wanted to cook so bad, he could have done it there. But this, this feels different. It is different. Not just because they haven't invented microwaves yet. 

Not just because he's picturing Juliet cooking him dinner. 

Why not just picture her barefoot and pregnant, too, he taunts himself, and then of course he does. And it aches. He's getting much too far ahead of himself. He's been in this house all of five minutes and he's thinking about a family. With a woman who doesn't even like him. 

Who he called his best friend, and meant it. 

Like hugs, there haven't been a lot of those in his life. 

He pushes all of those thoughts away and goes into the bedroom. The bed's been stripped down to the mattress, but a set of sheets are neatly folded and resting on top. It occurs to him that somebody cleaned this house, for him. 

He puts on the security jumpsuit and looks in the mirror. He reads not-his-name backwards, and his new title, stares himself in the eye, and cracks a smile at how silly he's being. 

It feels good. This feels good. It feels like getting a life. A real one. 

Which is why he thinks that probably the next thing he will do is screw it all up, royally. 

…

Juliet takes extra care when she's getting ready for dinner. She puts on a nice top and fusses with her hair. She'd picked up some lip gloss along with a few other things at the little Dharma store and now she puts some on and wonders if it looks too obvious. But she knows he won't even notice. 

She peeks into his room and it's obviously empty of his few personal things. She feels silly, but she misses him already. 

He's standing in the living room, waiting for them. He's flipping through the records, something they've all done a hundred times while standing around waiting. James turns and when he sees her, he smiles. “What's the occasion?” 

“I thought we were celebrating,” she says, feeling a little self-conscious. But his grin just widens and it makes her feel happy. 

“Hey, it's our new boss,” Miles says drolly to Jin as they clomp into the living room together. 

“Congratulations,” Jin says. 

“Thanks, boys,” James says, giving them each a look. 

“Seriously, anyone's going to be an improvement over Phil the Asshole,” Miles says, and exchanges a look with Jin, who appears to agree. 

“There's gonna be a lot less paperwork,” Sawyer says. “But enough shop talk. Let's hit the chow line.” 

They walk over to the cafeteria and take up their usual table. Juliet looks around, and she feels like things are different. She almost feels like people are looking at them interestedly or curiously, like James being the new head of security makes him some sort of celebrity. He doesn't seem to notice as he digs in to dinner. 

He keeps sneaking looks at her when he thinks she's not looking. She notices, and wonders why. It can't just be that she brushed her hair and put on lip gloss. Unless he's trying to figure out why her lips are inexplicably glittery. Maybe he'll conduct an investigation, she thinks, and ends up smiling to herself. 

“You up to somethin' over there?” James asks lightly, low and slow and a little bit teasing. 

“No,” she says innocently enough to make him give her another look. 

The four of them finish up and linger at the table for awhile. Like they don't want to go back to the house without him. But finally they gather up the dishes and their trays and return them, and go outside. 

“I want to see it,” Juliet declares. “This house of yours. I want to see it.” 

“C'mon then,” James says. He looks to Miles and Jin, seeing if they want to come too. 

Miles shakes his head and gives Jin a hard look. Disinviting him. “Some other time.” 

“See you in the morning, boss,” Jin says, and he and James do a high-five. Then Miles and Jin head back, and it's just James and Juliet standing there alone. 

They walk slowly. It's not quite an awkward silence between them, but they should be talking and they aren't. He unlocks the door and pushes it open for her. She reaches for the light switch. “It looks like ours,” she says, a little surprised. 

“Less stuff,” he says. “Living room, dining room. Kitchen.” He walks into the small room and opens a cabinet for her. “It's got dishes.” He tugs open a drawer. “Silverware too.” 

He sounds so proud. She can't help smiling at him. He leads her down the short hall. “Bathroom's there, and this is the bedroom.” He flips on the light. 

“You didn't make the bed yet,” she says, seeing the folded sheets resting on top of the bare mattress. She can't help noticing the two dressers, two nightstands. She wonders which of them he's claimed. Which side of the bed he prefers. “The first thing you do when you're moving is make up the bed. And don't set anything on it. That way, when you get tired, you can still go to sleep.” 

“I didn't have a lot to move,” he says. 

“Doesn't matter,” she says. She steps forward and shakes out the fitted sheet. It's not that she doesn't think he knows how to make a bed – she knows he knows how. She just wants it done, wants to do this for him. With no ulterior motive. 

He watches her for a second, then goes to the far side of the bed. They work together, and it only takes a second to put the fitted sheet on, then the flat, then the blanket. She watches his strong forearms, the ropes of veins in his hands. It's funny how she never noticed before, even working together in the motor pool. She tucks her side under the mattress and looks at him across the bed. His eyes kind of darken while he's looking at her and she's suddenly very aware of where they are. 

She thinks about making a move on him.

She's not usually timid about what she wants. She made her intentions known with Goodwin, even though he was married. She kissed Jack, even with both of them knowing he was in love with someone else. 

She could have James to herself. Maybe. She wants him to herself. Not have a fling with some other woman in his head. So sticky lip gloss be damned, she's going to keep waiting. Maybe forever, because she doesn't quite know how to make this happen, and that's not like her. 

“I got you a housewarming present, but I didn't bring it,” she says. 

“Next time,” he says. “I'm sure we'll be havin' dinner tomorrow, same as usual.” 

It won't be the same, she thinks. She doesn't know why it should be any different, but it already is. 

“How's Amy?” he asks. 

“How would I know?” she says, the words rough with surprise. 

“I don't know, you're women.” 

“Right, let me turn on the beacon.” 

“I just thought... you probably talk, or you hear things.” 

“She's fine,” Juliet says. Because he's right, she has asked around and heard things. “Amy's fine.” 

“Where's she living?” 

“Her house?” Juliet guesses, and she sees him relax. “You thought –?” She looks around, understanding that he's worried he's taken the house from a grieving widow. 

“Course not,” he says, too quickly. “I just wondered.” 

“You're going to have to be careful out there,” she says. 

“Right, no sex picnics in Hostile territory,” he says sarcastically. “Paul died for a stupid reason. But he's still dead.” 

“I don't want that to be you,” she says, and she's serious. 

She's more serious than he's up for, apparently. “Thanks for helping me with this,” he says, rounding the bed and switching off the light on his way past her, back to the living room. 

She follows, and they stand there awkwardly for a moment. “I guess I'd better get back,” she says softly. Reluctantly. 

“You're gonna have to stop by sometime. Middle of the night in your pjs.” He flashes the dimples at her.

She nods, and it feels like an ending. It has, all day. Her chest feels heavy with it, like it's goodbye. “I don't want you to miss that.” 

“I'll keep the fridge stocked with that ice cream you like.” 

“Give me an incentive,” she agrees. “It's a nice house, James. I am really, really happy for you.” She looks up at him and he's looking at her like he might just reach out and put his hand on her waist. They're standing close enough to touch. She could put her hand on his arm. She could hug him like she did earlier. She thinks about the bedroom. 

She thinks about what a mistake it would be, and decides, again, to walk away. 

He walks her to the door. They pause there on the threshold and it feels like the end of a date. Like there should be a kiss. She puts her hand on his chest, maybe to stop herself from leaning in closer. Maybe because she can't help herself, she has to touch him. “Don't be a stranger, James,” she says, her voice very soft. Her hand lingers for another second, feeling his heat and his strength. Then she turns and walks away, into the cool darkness of the night, headed for home. 

…

Sawyer starts to settle into a new routine. It's hard work, a lot harder and a lot more work than he was expecting. After declaring the death of paperwork, he puts Phil and Jerry on the night shift. He gave some thought to putting them on days with him, so he could keep and eye on them and assert his authority. But he's not much into being an asshole boss. They're not used to him, so it's better if they keep on as they have been, without him. He's got cameras on them and they know it. 

He thought it would be him and Miles and Jin wandering around the jungle like the old days. But it's not. They have a big problem with people going outside the boundary and into hostile territory. So he puts Jin on camera duty, and what seems like every twenty minutes or so they get a call from him over the walkie telling them who to bust and where. 

Every single one of those people spends the night in the holding cell. All night. No exceptions. 

And yeah, he keeps a list of them so there's still some paperwork happening. 

After the first couple, he devises a speech to give them about why it's necessary. How it's for their own good, the truce, and so on. He tells them all that a second offense means you're out of the Initiative and on the next sub home. Sawyer's not really sure he can pull that off, so he doesn't ask Horace. It doesn't matter if it's true – it just matters that they believe him. 

He gets to know a lot of people's names and faces. They get to know his. Something like a grudging respect starts to grow. 

“She thinks you're avoiding her,” Miles reports when he delivers Sawyer his to-go boxed dinner from the cafeteria, again. Sawyer looks up at him and blinks, trying to get his eyes to focus. “Juliet,” Miles clarifies, as though perhaps he's forgotten. 

“Why's she think that?” He rips into the sandwich without even tasting it. He's starving. 

Miles gives him a long look. “Never thought you'd be the top guy in the running for workaholic of the year.” 

“Another week or two and things'll settle,” Sawyer says. It's what he keeps telling himself, as he falls into bed exhausted every night. 

“Settle 'em now,” Miles suggests. “Set some boundaries. Eat dinner, for cryin' out loud.”

Sawyer looks at him. Really looks. “I gotta establish myself here, I got prisoners, I got all this other shit Horace wants. I gotta order supplies, I got --” 

“Paperwork,” Miles says, and pushes Sawyer's left hand off the stack of forms he was scribbling on. “You're the boss. Delegate. Phil can do half this stuff in his sleep.” 

“I don't trust Phil.” 

“The guy's a jerk but what's the worst that can happen? He buys the wrong brand of batteries for the walkies? Big whoop.” 

Sawyer sighs and reaches for his brownie. These boxed meals don't come close to filling him up. 

Miles takes it and puts it out of reach. “She's taking this as a pretty hard rejection, man.” 

“She told you that?” 

Miles shrugs. Meaning no. 

“You read minds now, Karnak?” 

“She started doing macrame, Jim.” 

“Oh no! What's next? Knitting?” 

Miles toys with the cling wrap on the brownie. Like he's going to open it and eat it right there in front of him. And damn him, but Sawyer really wants that brownie. He had it in his hand, so close he could taste it already, only to have it snatched away. He sees what Miles is doing. 

“She started talking to Chad,” Miles says, looking away, like he didn't want to say anything. 

“What?” 

“I guess he's good at macrame,” Miles says. Sawyer scoffs. “You're breaking up the band and it feels bad, man. Don't be the Yoko.” 

“That's... not what happened with John Lennon,” Sawyer points out. 

“I look like a Beatles fan to you?” 

Sawyer has to concede the point. 

“I'm not bringing you food anymore,” Miles declares. 

“Nobody asked you to,” Sawyer glowers. 

“See you around, boss,” Miles says, and makes his exit. He takes the brownie with him. 

Sawyer sits at the desk. He looks at the apple from the boxed lunch and wonders why the hell they ship in apples when they've got perfectly good fruit trees here. He hasn't had a mango in weeks, and he sure never thought he'd be missing them. 

He looks at the order forms, and the stack of paperwork. He was going to go through it and analyze where the biggest breaches were, then see if he could find a pattern to days and times when they made the most arrests. Plan to set up patrols. Compare the arrest count to the population and see if the numbers were declining. 

And suddenly he doesn't care. 

He busts in on Phil and Jerry, watching the monitors. “Get the inventory done and the orders placed,” he says and throws the forms down on the desk. 

“Right away, LaFleur,” Phil says. 

“Anybody shows up on the screens tonight, we'll pick 'em up on the day shift. Don't call me.” Sawyer looks at Phil, who nods, and Jerry, who nods and looks at Phil. “Night, boys.” 

He goes to his house, which doesn't really feel like home. It's quiet and dark and with the generic furniture, it feels like a motel room. He kicks off his jumpsuit and leaves it on the floor, going into the kitchen in the t-shirt and shorts he wears under it. He's opening a can of “imitation tomato flavor pasta circles” when there's a soft knock at the door. 

He puts the can down and opens the door. 

Juliet is standing there. She's got something large and awkwardly shaped in her hands. “Hi,” she says, like she's nervous. 

“Hey, Blondie,” he says. He opens the door wider and waves her in. He's thinking it didn't take her long to get here. It feels like she was watching and came running the moment he turned his light on. 

He's also thinking she's not wearing her cute little pajamas. He's disappointed and also underdressed. “Let me go put some pants on.” 

“I don't mind,” she says. She doesn't even bother to look.

“Back in a flash,” he says. He sees his jumpsuit on the floor where he left it and realizes it makes him look like a slob. He picks it up and takes it with him into the bedroom, where he pulls on some jeans. “I was just cooking something awful for dinner. You hungry?” 

“I ate,” she says. “In the cafeteria. With Miles and Jin.” 

He nods. They stand there, awkwardly, in silence. He glances at the object in her hands. 

“Oh! I brought your housewarming present.” She turns it around so he can see what it is, and gives it to him.

It's a painting. It's brown and red and he can't figure out which way is supposed to be up, or what it's supposed to be of. “Thank you. It's hideous.” 

“I know. I got it at the art center. I love it,” she says, and her whole face lights up. He loves that it seems to make her so happy. 

“Thank you,” he says again, sincerely meaning it. He sets it on top of the bookshelf, leaning it against the wall. It fits right in. “I heard you took up macrame. Thought you were gonna bring me one a those plant pot holder things.” 

“I'm saving that for your birthday.” 

“Ah,” he says. He can't tell if she's serious. He doesn't think she is. “You want something to drink?” He realizes as he says it that all he has is beer and tap water. 

“You're busy,” she says. “I didn't want to bother you.” She's gotten an apologetic look, and there's something underneath it. Disappointment, maybe. 

“Sit down,” he says, and sinks into the chair. “I ain't busy.” He wants to say it's good to see her, because it is, but he can't. He feels like there was a piece of him missing for these past few days and he didn't even realize it. 

She sits down on the couch and he realizes he should have sat down on the couch, too, so she'd be next to him. “You're getting quite a reputation,” she says. 

He sighs and flicks back his hair. “The monster should just eat them all. Don't know why it doesn't.”

“That's not what it's here for,” she says, like she knows what that thing is. He's intrigued, but then she says, “I miss you, James.” 

He's surprised by the plain honesty of the words. He opens his mouth, but doesn't know what to say. 

She glances away. “I was thinking I'd have to get arrested just to see you again.” 

“Things'll settle in a week or two,” he says. The same thing he told Miles. “I'm just trying to keep people safe.” 

“You sound like Jack.” 

“Ha. Good one.” But he realizes she's right. He never sat down and said, what would the doc do. And the doc would never be so heavy handed as to actually start locking people up. But the rest of it, the taking it all on himself, that's pure Jack. He fixes her with a look. “I seem to recall you kinda liked the doc.” 

She gives him a wistful smile.

He wonders if she's thinking about Jack when she smiles like that. Or if she's thinking about him. Sawyer wishes it was him. But he knows it's probably Jack. All the girls just love Jack with his dorky smile and medical degree and short hair and bossing everyone around. She kissed Jack. Went for it. It's another way he knows she doesn't like him in that way. She wouldn't wait around. But he looks at her and he thinks, She's here. It counts for something.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks. “You prob'ly miss him.” 

“I don't want to talk about Jack,” she says, with her words slow and even and her eyes fixed on him. 

“I got ice cream,” he offers. 

That little secret smile crosses her face, and he knows it's at the thought of him buying ice cream especially for her. She's smiling because now she knows he was hoping she'd come over. That smile doesn't make him feel like he's admitted too much. 

“I'm going to start coming to dinner again,” he promises. 

She nods. He wonders why this feels so awkward. Like they've run out of things to talk about. Like strangers, being polite. They're both holding something back. “What about lunch?” 

He realizes the difference between dinner and lunch. Dinner is the four of them. Lunch was always just the two of them. “I can try.” 

“It just gets lonely sometimes, you know?” she admits. “The three of you off together having adventures.” 

“You wanna join security? You're a better shot than Miles.” 

“I'm not sure the 70s is ready for women in security,” she says. 

“That's not very Women's Lib of you.” 

That earns him a smile. 

“Are you doing dangerous things out there?” she asks.

“No,” he says. She nods, but he can see she doesn't believe him. She worries about him. He doesn't quite know how to feel about that. “Just busting people. I think they all run around because there's nothing to do here on a date.” 

“They'll have to start sitting around their houses together,” she says. 

Like they are right now. The thought seems to settle over both of them. 

And like they're playing chicken, she breaks first. “I should go.” She gets to her feet. 

Because this is just friendship, he thinks. He's learning how to be friends.

“Want me to walk you back?” 

“I'll be fine,” she says. There's that wistful little expression again. It's definitely for him. He can't reconcile it with her turning him down. The look in her eyes makes him think she might not push him away if he tried to kiss her good night, but her declining his offer makes him think that she's not interested. It all feels so tentative and confusing. 

She puts her hand on his arm and leans in for the briefest hug. It's just one second of her body against his, one breath and then she's pulling away again. Before he can move his arm to hold her, she's gone. “Sweet dreams, James,” she says, pausing for a second at the doorway to look back at him. Then the door closes softly behind her.

He falls back into the chair and puts his empty arms around himself. He tips his head back and takes a deep breath, holding on to that one flash of a moment and those words for as long as he can.


	7. Chapter 7

James comes by every morning to check out a van. It's the highlight of her day. Even if he doesn't make it to lunch, or to dinner, she knows she'll see him in the morning. 

It's not like clockwork – you couldn't set your watch to it. It's usually sometime around nine, but he's come before as early as eight and as late as ten-thirty. One day he didn't turn up at all, and she started to worry but then she thought to look at the checkout sheet. He'd gotten there before she did, and checked it out from Matt. She ran her thumb over his signature – big J, big L, maybe an F, rest illegible. 

She doesn't wait around for him. She does her other work, but she watches. She makes sure she's over by the checkout sheet when she sees him coming. One day she was elbows deep in an engine, so Matt went over to hand him the keys. James shook his head and looked in her direction, and waited until she could get free. Her boss rolled his eyes at her. Now he pretends not to see them at all. 

James could send Miles or Jin. He could get the night shift to pick up a van before they go off duty. But he doesn't. 

Juliet suspects this is the highlight of his day, too. 

Her heart skips a little when she sees him. “Mornin',” he says, his voice low, and he gives her that heart-melting grin. 

“Hey,” she says softly. She twists the keys around in her fingers. “What's up today?” 

“Grid one-one-one.” He bends to sign the sheet. She puts the key ring into his hand. He lingers. “Finished that book of yours last night.” 

She waits, a little nervously, for him to tell her what she thought. 

“Cost me a fair bit of beauty sleep.” 

“Yet you're still gorgeous,” she says, teasing a little, though she wishes she could reach up and brush his hair back out of his eyes. 

He produces The Perilous Gard and slaps it on the counter.

“I love that you're willing to read anything I give you.” 

“Baby, I lay on the beach readin' Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret,” he says. “I will read anything.” His lips quirk a bit and his dimples flash at her. “You still owe me.” 

“I'm trying to get through Dune,” she promises. 

“You said that about The Hobbit, too.” 

She just gives him a look. They've been over this. It was just too... hobbity for her. 

“I better go before you foist Wutherin' Heights off on me or some such.” He pockets the keys. “Later, bookworm.” 

She gives him a look in response to the nickname and watches him return to the van. He gives a little wave and then punches the gas. She picks up the book and puts it with her things. Matt's watching her and she doesn't even care. 

She walks home from work past the basketball hoop. One night she went this way and was surprised to find James shooting baskets with a couple of other guys. He's been there most nights lately. Jin plays too, on occasion, and he's actually a better player. Sometimes Juliet stops to watch for a while. Other times, she just sneaks a glance as she hurries home. 

Tonight she pauses. James shoots, and she watches the way he moves, the flick of his wrist, the muscles in his legs when he jumps when he lands and runs to catch the ball underneath the basket. She wants to watch him shoot again, which he does. She thinks he's alone, but then he turns to look at a skinny slip of a kid standing there. 

“Try it,” James says, and passes the ball. The kid's not ready and it hits him in the chest. It falls and then rolls right over to where Juliet is standing. 

She feels caught, but picks up the ball. “Lose something?” 

“You wanna play?” James asks, shaking back his sweaty hair. 

“No.” She tosses the ball to him. Then folds her arms and cocks one hip, still his audience. 

“You sure?” James asks. 

“Very,” she says. 

“Your loss,” he says, and turns back to toss the ball to the kid again. The kid is wearing glasses and staring at her with his mouth open. The ball goes right by him. 

“Guess that's enough for tonight,” James says. He retrieves the ball and puts it into the kid's hands. 

The spell is broken and he looks up at James. “Thanks, Mr. LaFleur.” The kid unsubtly glances at her again, and then runs off. 

James walks over to her. She's feeling very uncomfortable. “That was Ben?” she asks. Her stomach is twisted into knots. He seemed like a normal kid. 

“Think he's got a crush on ya.” 

“Don't,” she warns him. 

“Who can blame him?” He teases her with a grin. “How long you been watchin' me play basketball?” 

“Not long,” she says, and looks back in the direction that Ben went. “How does that work?” 

He shrugs. “Maybe it's why he likes you later. You remind him of someone.” 

She remembers Harper saying that, but at the time she thought it was Ben's dead mother she reminded him of. She feels nauseous. 

“Hazards of time travel,” he says, but then he sees her face. “Hey, I didn't invite him. He just showed up.” 

“No, I know,” she says, still feeling strange and ill. She glances back again. 

“You okay?” James asks. His palm touches her cheek for a second, getting her to look at him. She instinctively wants to lean in to his touch, but just as quickly he withdraws. 

“I'm fine,” she says, and the words sound hollow. She doesn't know what to do with this. 

James studies her another minute. Then he nods. “Catch you at dinner in a few. I need a shower.” He heads down the path, leaving her standing there, alone. 

“Me too,” she murmurs, and sighs, and heads back to her own house, still feeling her face burning where he touched her. 

Miles picks up on her uneasiness when she walks into the living room after changing her clothes and freshening up. “You feeling okay?” 

“Not really,” she admits, and sinks down into a chair. Her knees feel oddly numb. “I saw Ben.” 

Miles absorbs this. “Right. I knew he was here.” 

“So did I. I just... didn't think it would be so strange.” He's just a kid. She's bigger than he is. He can't hurt her. 

“Where'd it happen?” Miles asks. 

“He was playing basketball with James.” 

“Ohhhh,” Miles says. 

She frowns at him. “What's that mean?” 

“Past couple of weeks you've been following Jim around like a puppy,” Miles says. 

“I have not,” she says. 

“He's not making a move because he doesn't have to. He feels secure that whenever he turns around you're probably going to be there.” 

“Who says I want him to make a move?” Juliet says. 

Miles purses his lips and gives her an expression that says give him a break. 

“You think he knows?” 

Miles rolls his eyes. “He's as thick-headed as you are. Would it be such a bad thing?” 

“Don't say anything to him. Please.” 

“Look. The dude has low self esteem. You know it, I know it. It's getting better, but he's never going to figure this out on his own. That much is obvious.” Miles looks at her. “And you won't say anything because you think he's still hung up on Buck-toothed Becky from the plane.” 

“They had a relationship, Miles,” she says. 

“All I'm saying is, you want him... you're going to have to tell him.” 

She opens her mouth to say something, but Miles gets to his feet before she can. “Let's eat. Jin!” he bellows. Jin appears, and they go to the cafeteria.

…

Sawyer walks in to the cafeteria and stops at the door, looking for his friends. He spots them at their usual table, mid-meal, talking about something. He stays there an extra second, watching them, feeling something he doesn't really have a name for but it's warm and good inside his chest. 

A few minutes later, he plunks his tray down on the table, nudging Juliet's tray over to make room. “Y'all didn't have to wait for me,” he teases, because he took too long in the shower and was late. 

“We didn't,” Jin points out. 

Sawyer nods and starts eating. It's not very good, but he's hungry. 

“I think I'm done actually,” Miles says. Jin's plate is also clean. 

Sawyer looks at Juliet. She's absently rearranging the lettuce of her salad with her fork, looking at it but not seeing it. She's a million miles away. “Somebody's slow.” 

Her eyes slide back into focus and she glances at him. “I'm not hungry,” she says and puts her fork down. 

He watches Miles give her a pointed look. 

“I'll stay though,” she offers. “Keep you company.”

Miles and Jin say their goodbyes, leaving him alone with Juliet. 

“You okay?” he asks. She nods. “I know it was weird earlier --” 

“I don't want to talk about it.” 

He watches her go back to playing with her food. 

She notices him watching her. “What?”

“You want me to go get you something else?” he offers, gesturing at her plate. 

It earns him half a smile. “You're my waiter now?” She shakes her head. “Eat.” 

He does, cleaning his plate. Then he sighs and stretches and rubs his stomach. He shoots her a wicked grin. “Time for seconds.” 

He feels her watching him as he goes back through the line. It's not like they're back on the beach with only fish and fruit to eat. They can all stand to skip a meal now and then. He feels like his plan is pretty transparent when he comes back with half a sandwich that just happened to come with a double order of fries on the side. 

“I didn't have to arrest anyone today,” he says. “I think it's starting to work.” 

“Good,” she says. 

He wishes he knew how to get her out of her own head. “How was your day, honey?” 

“Same as usual, dear,” she says, and gives him a look. She's snatched a french fry off his plate, maybe without even realizing it. He knew she wouldn't be able to resist, and he feels something warm and comfortable in knowing her that well. 

He moves his hand to have a fry himself and they bump elbows. “Sittin' on the wrong side,” he says. 

“I wasn't thinking about it,” she admits. Usually he takes the left side-seat automatically. He reaches across his plate with his right hand it just feels weird. “I can move.” She starts to get up to sit across from him. 

“No, don't,” he says, and nudges her shoulder with his. “I got 'em for you anyway.” 

“I know.” She puts another fry in her mouth. 

She shifts her leg so it's pressing against his. He thinks it's an accident, but she doesn't shift away. He doesn't either, but he feels like all the air's gone out of the room. Every inch of her thigh pressing against his now making him painfully, consciously aware of her body. And his body. He watches her. He thinks he can feel the rise and fall of her breath, she's that close. 

“I guess I'm done,” he says, wadding up his napkin and tossing it onto the tray. 

She looks at him with those wide blue eyes and takes another handful of fries. Neither of them makes a move to go. 

“Come on by the house later. I got something to show you,” he says. For another heartbeat, he stays where he is, then he pushes up. 

“I can come now,” she says. He takes her tray and puts it on top of his and takes them both over to the cleanup area. She stands a little ways away, waiting for him. 

They walk out together into the early evening air. His head feels empty – he can't think of anything to say. He wants to take her hand. What the hell is he waiting for, anyway? he asks himself, and looks at her. 

She notices immediately and raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Nice... breeze tonight,” he says, and has to look away. 

“It's not as hot,” she agrees. 

Thank God it's a short walk to his house, he thinks, because he feels stupid talking about the weather. He knows how to manipulate and seduce, but not how to do this. How to be real. 

Inside, they sit down on the couch. He takes one side, and she curls up at the other end. It's comfortable, but he looks at the space between them. 

“I heard Miles's lunch lady broke it off with her hubby,” he says. “More like Matt's lunch lady, I guess.” 

“Her name's Susan,” Juliet says. “She moved in with Matt. Your security operations shook up a lot of things.” 

“Good to know I'm makin' a difference,” he says with a heavy dose of irony. 

“It is the swinging seventies,” she says. Then she nails him with a look. “Why'd you invite me over here?” 

“Maybe I wanted to hang out with you,” he says. He should say they're friends, but he can't. Not when he wants something more. And he knows she has her own stuff going on tonight – baby Ben threw her for a loop. “But I wanted to show you something.” He reaches over to the coffee table and picks up a small fabric sleeve. 

“Oh! The sub came in and you got them,” she says. “I want to see.” 

He fumbles getting the glasses out of their case, then holds them up. She takes them, her fingers brushing his, and looks through them. Then she passes them back. He starts to fold them back up and put them away. “I want to see them on,” she says. 

He kind of makes a face at her. They make him feel like a dork. He'll wear them, because he's not going to stop reading and he prefers that his head doesn't hurt. But he doesn't have to like it. 

“Come on, let me see,” she says. 

He lets out a heavy, audible sigh and slips them onto his nose. He waits for her to laugh, to start making fun of him. Like he would if it was somebody else. “Let's have it,” he says, steeling himself for 'four-eyes' or worse. 

“They look good,” she says. “I was expecting them to be bigger. More seventies. But they look good. Am I in focus now?” 

“They're reading glasses,” he points out. “You were always in focus.” 

“Darn,” she jokes, with a smirk and a goofy look in her eyes. “No wonder.” 

“Well, you know what they say.” 

“What's that?” 

“Girls don't make passes at guys who wear glasses.” 

“Is that what they say?” she asks. He gives her a look. “Guess you're going to have to do it, then.” 

“Do what?” 

She's suddenly turned very serious and very still. “Make the pass.” 

“Juliet?” He's confused, because she doesn't sound like she's joking. His heart is thudding in his chest. 

She reaches over and ever so gently takes his glasses off. He blinks at her while she folds them up carefully and sets them on the table. Then she looks at him again. Her lips are slightly parted. She waits for another heartbeat and then she kisses him. 

Finally, is all he can think. He puts his hand tentatively against the back of her neck and she touches his face. He kisses her back. It's slow and soft and warm. After a moment, she pulls back. He opens his eyes and she's looking at him. Checking. He doesn't know what she's thinking, so he says, “Maybe we should talk about this.” 

“Don't wanna talk about it,” she says, and kisses him again. Harder this time. Deeper. Her tongue slides against his and he groans. It feels so good to finally have her in his arms. They kiss for a long time, and when she makes a small move to pull away, he makes a little sound of protest, even though he could use a moment to get his breath back and calm down. 

She smiles at him and there's shyness in it. “I've been thinking about that for a long time.” 

“Me too,” he admits. “I didn't know.” He's still surprised to find out that she wants him that way. He still can't quite believe it. 

“You really are blind,” she says. 

“Then what took you so long?” he asks. 

She shrugs and gives him a wild look. “I'm me,” she says, and looks away. “The Other. The villain, not the one you want, but the one you're stuck with --” 

“Juliet,” he says softly. 

She nods, like that's the problem. “I wanted you to do it. So I'd know.” 

“I tried,” he says. But he can't tell her he was scared. Can he? “But this ain't some quickie fling on the beach. We're here. For good.” 

“So what do we do?” she asks, and he realizes she's just as afraid as he is. They could talk for another year and they'd just be talking themselves out of it. Because right now they are both terrified, and there's only one thing that's going to make that better. He has to believe her, and she has to believe him, and they both have to stop thinking so damn much and just feel. 

“We do this,” he says. He traces one fingertip along the side of her face, then lifts her chin a fraction before he leans in and kisses her again. That's all they're going to do, for now. They have time. 

(end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I finished writing this story, I got all excited, and typed "the end," and then... wrote the next scene. So, there is a sequel, and it will (of course) be called "Requited," and the first part should be posted in a few days. Thanks for sticking with it so far. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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